


Wolf Spirit

by Just Jo (aboxfullofocs)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aboxfullofocs/pseuds/Just%20Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysander was born under the signs of the Apprentice and the serpent, and his whole life he has been both blessed and cursed. With a love for dragons and knowledge, he set out to Skyrim, but fate sends him in road he never wished.  Decided on finding the old man who saved his life and find the roots of his father, he finds himself joining the ranks of the Companions, only to find love and lose it. Presence of mod characters (Interesting Characters mod; Inconsequential character mods; Breezehome Fully Upgradable, Inigo the Brave).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story goes by during the first year and a half in Skyrim, mid way through the main quest, first quest of the Mage’s College. It follows the full companions questline, though the story has been tweaked to fit. 
> 
> Rated M for future chapters.

** 4E201: 14th of Last Seed – The Reach **

**He remembered the day he lost his father.** Magic had not been enough to keep him safe. That was the first time he felt useless and it felt horrible, and the first time he turned his back on his mother, his brother and the so called Emperor. He fought besides a father and a much older brother in the Great War, and when it ended, over 20 years ago, while his brother remained and fought for the Empire, he was among the ranks of dissidents who were through with a corrupt and cowardly Empire that turned its back on its people and sent good soldiers, good men to their death for nothing more than their beliefs.

He abandoned the legion for his dreams. For the stories his father told him of dragons and werewolves. He wished, more than magic, he wished knowledge and he wished above all, to find the dragons. All that remained from his father was that Talos amulet and the endless tales of dragons and stories of the dragon priests and the dragon cult and he wanted to find it. The stories of a circle of Companions afraid of magic but that dwelled in daedric affairs. The stories of Jarls and High Kings and a Queen of Undead.

He wanted those tales.

That was his plan originally. Go to Winterhold, join classes to solve his problem with his magic and study the dragon history. Maybe join the Companions and find the roots of his father also, learn how to properly wield a sword and a bow. That was his plan. So, he sneaked through the border of the Reach, taking less legal methods when he, surprised, found out the borders were closed due to civil war.

 Coming from High Rock, he was well acquainted with the stories of the Forsworn, the Breton natives of the Reach, he also knew briefly of their brutality. However, to him, that was all but legends and rumors spilled by Imperial Propaganda trying to quell the civil war that was threatening the nation.  So, as expected by a young inexperienced pseudo-mage with aiming issues, born under the apprentice and under the serpent, it wasn’t long before he walked into a Forsworn ambush.

The Forsworn were as savage has he had heard, wearing dimly protective fur armors and crafted weapons made of bone, disorganized and lacking in skills and discipline, but they made up for their lacking skills with numbers, excruciating big numbers and magic, and he was lacking in protection against magic, so was the curse of the apprentice. If he didn’t love magic himself, he would hate mages so much!

Armed with a sword in one hand and with a fireball that drained him quite fast of magicka in the other, he did all he could to fend off of his attackers. Arrows flew, slashes were charged at him, as he dodged and ducked, swishing back away from their sword as they attacked him. He slashed forward, throwing fireballs at the attackers who ran at him, sending them on flames aback, until he was drained off his magicka, forced to call upon his highborn trait in hopes of regenerating his energy quickly. The forsworn fell, his wounds grew, and when another wave of warriors rushed at him, he ran back, tripping on rocks and throwing as many fireballs as he could.

He only realized he was screwed when the first ice spike pierced him, straight through the gut. He didn’t even yell, simply widened his eyes in horror as he saw the Briarheart. How he wished he had pulled out a ward, or at least packed a shield, but it wouldn’t do any difference, novices in Wayfarer had dissolved his wards with simple bolts of magic, an icespike by an undead abomination of a hag would just open a hole right through it.

He did the first sensible thing that crossed his mind. He ran, he ran as quickly as he could given the ice spike he had impaled through his torso. With his back turned to the forsworn he just ran. Akatosh damn it, he had nothing to do with the forsworn losing their home, why were they attacking him? And then came the second spike, straight through his shoulder, the third hit his leg and the forth his torso again and he fell to the floor. He could hear the forsworn speaking, something about catching a big fish and about how their mistress would be pleased with what they had got, he just tried to get away, crawling. When he realized that wouldn’t do him not good, he turned around, and in an act of desperation threw one last fireball at his attackers.

 

 **Kodlak was used to magical altercations in the Reach** ,but rather it was fate or his augmented sense, he could feel something was wrong, and he should, against his better judgment, follow the explosions. Since the day he had that dream he had been more wary to his sense. So the old Companion did, leaving his horse on the main road, Kodlak headed towards the cliffs surrounding the road to Markath. He found a trail of dead and charred forsworn, whoever they had chosen to pick on could very well handle himself. He wasn’t going to interfere, but it was when he saw their target, a fully cloaked man running away and being shot by the back by ice spikes, did he stop. The man, a mage, still threw one last fireball at the forsworn, throwing those who were closest to the area in the ground where he had thrown the spell back and across the floor, their bodies on fire.

The Companion rushed in, once he saw the forsworn holding an axe to kill the mage, wielding his hammer charged at the forsworn with a furious cry, hitting the forsworn right across his torso and throwing him across the plains. The others left their former target and charged at Kodlak. Quickly he swung his hammer at his enemies, skillfully dodging their advances and blocking them with the handle of his hammer, the hammer cracked skulls and broke bones, until only the Briarheart stood. The shameless creature, threw ice spikes at him, and Kodlak dodged the attacks, but one went right through his right hip, but quickly, he dodged down until he was face to face with the man.

He swung his hammer at the creature’s goat head, it ducked, but letting go of the hammer, Kodlak shoved his fist on the creature’s abdomen. The man fell back and Kodlak picked up the hammer, raised it over the Briartheart’s head swinging down. A loud crack was heard and blood flew off as the man fell back. Kodlak threw himself at his knees and shoved his fingers into the hole on the man’s chest and dug out the briar off the place where the heart should be, lest it decided to get up again.

Gasping and panting, he turned his glance to the ice spike on his hip that now dissipated in water, leaving back a nasty gash. He hated mages sometimes, he really did…

Mages?... Mage!

And he looked towards the wounded mage who laid unconscious on the ground a few steps away from him. He limped over the grass and bushes and made his way to the man, a small puddle of blood formed under the man. Kneeing down, Kodlak turned the man around. He was big, he was very tall, taller than Farkas, but had a very slim and slender build. He wore an Alik’r hood over fancy mage clothes like the ones worn in High Rock and a travel cloak made of red linen. The man appeared young, but it was hard to tell given how dark it was, probably younger than the twins.

“Hey, boy, wake up,” Kodlak called shaking him, he was alive, that as a fact, but had blacked out of blood loss.

Kodlak did the only sensible thing he could think off. He pulled the boy of the ground, who was remarkably light despite his size, and throwing him over his shoulder took him back to where he had left his horse. He had healing potions on his saddle, and it wasn’t soon until he was forcing a couple of them down the man’s throat, which was met with coughing and gagging. The man pushed him off, snapping from unconsciousness and crawled back against the horse, confused.

“Uurgh where? What?!... Aaagh… I hate ice magic…” he heard him complain, trying to get up, using the saddle as support.

“Wait pup, stay down!” Kodlak ordered him forcing the boy to sit. “You received quite a trashing!”

“Aye… certainly feels like it…” he mumbled with a grunt looking around. “Where am I? Where are they? Who are you?”

“The man who saved your backside from becoming the next sacrifice on that merry bunch,” Kodlak answered with a chuckle. “You’re welcome. I pulled off to the road, to my horse.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” the man said in apology and looked up at the horse, he was still holding the saddle so he left go of it. “Who healed me?”

“I did; used a couple of potions on you, but they can only do so far. So I’m sorry to inform, but you’re going to be quite sore,” Kodlak answered. “What could have possibly possessed you to travel to the Reach with nothing but the clothes on your back, boy?”

“I figured I’d be harder to spot if I wasn’t dressed for war,” he answered and Koddlak laughed. “Always been good at lurking in the shadows.”

“Well, you got it wrong, boy, and it nearly cost you,” and Kodlak pulled from his horse’s saddle a lidded jar with some weird white porridge like mixture inside.

“Here, eat.”

The boy took the opened jar and frowned cringing his nose at the dubious mixture.

“It tastes far worse than what it smells, but it’ll help you recover your strength.”

“Thanks, I guess,” and he took the bowl to his lips and promptly spitted it out. “By Ysmir, you weren’t kidding!”

Kodlak laughed. “So, what’s your name boy and what brings you to Skyrim?”

 “This tastes awful, what is it?”

“Porridge made of imp stool, wheat, moths and a bit of horse milk to try and make it edible,” Kodlak answered and the boy frowned startled and looked at the bowl.

“Horse… milk?... This is edible!? Nightshade tastes better!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came from High Rock to join the college of Winterhold, looking for the old dragon stories,” he answered. “I had interest of metting Tolfdir to teach me how to… well… to teach me… huh… defensive magic .”

That wasn’t the full story, but Kodlak had nothing to do with it. “Aah, it is commendable, though I’m not a fan of magic myself.”

 “Who are you?” The boy asked surprised.

“Kodlak Whitemane, I’m the harbinger of the Companions,” he answered, though the boy was yet to present himself.

“Companions? Of Jorrvaskr?” The boy asked.

“Aye, my boy,” Kodlak answered. “You have heard of us?”

“Aye, my father used to tell me stories of the Companions,” the boy said taking a sip of the porridge. “He said the circle of Companions were all magic hating werewolves who ate baby elves.”

Kodlak flinched surprised and burst into laugh. “Well, I am the harbinger, and I have never eaten baby bunnies, rather less baby elves, but I heard they’re crispy.”

The boy chuckled and Kodlak went on. “We’re an order of warriors, brothers and sisters in honor. At least that’s what we used to be… That lot are more like sellswords and brawlers than Companions. But I’m certain none of them eats babies of any kind.”

The elf laughed again and sat the jar aside. “I think my father just wanted to scare me from Skyrim. I can see why… First day in Skyrim, a Briarheart impales me with ice-spikes. I can’t even imagine what day two holds for me.”

“Anyway, I’m Lysander Fire-Bear,” he finally presented himself.

“Fire-Bear?” Kodlak had heard that name before, it sounded like a nord clan name, but he couldn’t remember where. Was the boy nord? But he couldn’t tell, it was too dark to see any breed defining characteristics, but if he was that explained his large build, though he was taller than Farkas, who was an already tall nord. But because the boy said nothing more, Kodlak decided not to press it.

“Well Lysander,” Kodlak started. “I’ll leave you off in Markath with some money for the carriage, from there you can take a safe route to Winterhold.”

“There’s no need for that, sera,” the boy said. “I don’t wish to burden you more.”

“No, I insist. When you save someone, my boy, their life becomes your responsibility until the moment they are safe and can take care of themselves. So it is my duty therefore to make sure you find save passage to Winterhold.”

“I can handle myself, sera.”

“Like you handled that briarheart?” Kodlak chuckled.

“In my defense, I was at disadvantage and if I had a staff or quarterstaff, I would have beaten them to pulp, spells or no spells,” he said with a grin.

Kodlak simply laughed and patted the youngster. “You’ll have to show me that one day.”

They took one day to arrive to Markath, and would have gotten there sooner was it not for a couple of bandits who were scurrying the area. Kodlak quickly took care of them and was glad to realize, though wounded, boy had fire in him and jumped to the fight to aid Kodlak, roasting the bandits caught on the range of his attacks and clumsily slashing at them with the dark bladed scimitar, though the boy’s aim was terrible, and ended up either roasting them with a constant torrent of flames or throwing explosive fireballs at the ground near the enemies. Once in Markath stables, Kodlak said the final goodbyes to the boy who now was on a wagon ready to leave towards Winterhold.

“Be careful on your way, my boy,” Kodlak said grinning at the boy.

“Thank you, sera,” Lysander answered back from the carriage. “If there is any way I can repay you in the future, just tell me.”

“Well, you got potential boy, so, if you ever show your face in Whiterun I would like to see how well you handle the staff, and if you want to learn how to wield a sword, or at least how to aim,” and he chuckled when the boy flinched ashamed, “just seek out the Companions, we have free beds.”

“But I’m a mage, the Companions are warriors, and you said it yourself said you weren’t comfortable with magic.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight beside a mage and that doesn’t mean I won’t vouch for his honor. As long as you fight with honor without trickery or deception, you are welcome,” Kodlak said. “Take care, my boy.”

“Thank you sera,” the boy said and the carriage departed.

Kodlak was only left with one regret, once the young mage left, he didn’t get to see a face to put with the name. He chuckled at the thought, he had a long way home and there was still journal from the previous harbingers that he wished to collect, lest a solution and a cure was hidden somewhere within them. But it was only when he finally arrived to Whiterun several days later that did he hear the rumors of an Imperial ambush in Darkwater Crossing and saw himself worrying over the young mage’s welfare. If that was not enough, stories of dragons just west of Whiterun and the rise of a Dragonborn were heard across the province.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter already done, just worked it a little.
> 
> Edit: I made some alterations, some of the dialogue had the order changed for some reason. So I had to fix it.

** Whiterun: Three months later – Sun’s Dusk **

Nadja and Athis were brawling in the mess hall. Farkas lifted his head from the table and watched the whelps fighting; a chuckle escaped his throat as he watched the woman fist meet the elf’s face. The whelps brawls were something he had grown accustomed to. Nadja had potential, spunk, fire in her, but her aggressiveness was anything but amusing when it got in the way of a job, she was reckless and foolhardy, borderline bitch. Still, those petty brawls helped them steam off some frustration and they were short on jobs currently, with the whole dragons thing going around, though no one was yet fully sure how much of it was truth or hysteria.

The Companion got up to get a better look at the whelps. Torvar was cheering Athis while Aela and Skjor watched in silence; Tilma simply shook her head with Brill and Vignar seemed more interested in his food than the brawl. They nearly didn’t see when the door was opened back and a man walked in. Farkas was the first to notice him. The man watched curious with a smile the whelps fighting, crossing his arms over a light armor like the ones worn by the dunmer who came from Solstheim, but in tones of black, brown and beige, wearing a black shawl with adorned ends with the hood down. When he crossed his arms, Farkas saw bandages, dirty and bloodied wrapped around his hands and arms. A curved dagger stood on the back of his waist, and he had another one strapped on a belt across his torso, and on his back he held an odd silver staff.

Farkas turned around and walked up to meet the stranger but stopped midway upon noticing the staff on his back. The staff on the stranger’s back was freeing one of the most unsettling auras he ever felt, something that irked him inside, that made the wolf stir and growl in suspicion, warning him that something wasn’t quite right. Like yells and laughter boiling within it and just propagating out. Utter madness, crying, yelling, sobbing, and laughing just like the sculpted faces at the end of the staff.

The stranger looked down at him, a very tall man, slightly taller than Farkas, but elegant and slim, with long ginger hair tied in a loose knot, slightly gold tanned skin green, warm eyes filled with a burning fire. A set of wild freckles adorned fair yet masculine features, with a defined jaw and cheekbones, slim nose and the small pointy ears that nearly passed unnoticed under his hair.

The moment the man got close, Farkas froze as the scent reached him. His scent was odd, filled with fire, burning pine incense, iron and rust and something sweet like taffy, an intense scent that sent a jolt of electricity up Farkas’ gut and he frowned. That scent was overbearing and much like the staff the stranger carried, it made the wolf twitch and turn, but this time with picked interest. It was the smell of a man, fresh and dangerous, warm and sweet. He wondered if the others would pick that scent and if it would trouble than as much as it did Farkas. Farkas bit his lip and eyed the newcomer; it wasn’t often that he found himself being looked down upon. The man was tall, the man _was_ tall.

“You’re new here, I don’t trust the new,” Farkas said with a frown and the man snickered.

“That’s a smart move, Companion,” the man said. He had the oddest accent Farkas had heard, he wasn’t entirely sure where it came from. He eyed the man well, he was a mutt, he was sure. Though tanned, his skin had the gold shimmer of a high elf and that would explain the ears and his height, but the eyes and hair and even his features were human like.

A mutt. They weren’t unusual, but they weren’t that easy to identify.

 “I wish to join the companions,” he said.

“We don’t take mages,” Farkas explained looking at the staff. By Ysmir, that thing was unsettling.

“Really now?” he asked lifting his left eyebrow. Farkas frowned and the man smiled. The man’s smile left Farkas uneasy, uncertain. It was a grin, an amused grin, truthful and sly, filled with a certain seduction.

 “You’re Farkas, correct? You were fighting the giant with Aela and Ria back in Pelagia Farm a few months ago, weren’t you?”

“Have we met?”

“I’m the guy that fried said giant,” he explained.

“You’re the mage Aela invited over?” Farkas asked frowning. He remembered that night, the man, dressed in a Stormcloak armor came from nowhere and set the giant on fire from the back. Just like that. When Aela went to greet him, he just shrugged it off and said he had to inform the Jarl of dragons. At the time they had no idea what he was talking about.

“Yes, she didn’t seem to mind my magic. She has extended me the invite every time she catches sight of me,” he explained.”If I didn’t know better I would say she can sniff me out.”

Farkas flinched at that comment and grinned. That sounded like Aela alright, once she saw a prey, she wouldn’t let it go.

“Why did you only come now? It has been a while,” Farkas asked.

“True,” he answered with a chuckle. “Aela told me Koddlak was sick. I owe him something, so here I am…”

“Aye, he is. You know Koddlak?”

“Hmmhmm, though, he probably doesn’t remember me… When we met it was dark.”

“Kodlak is the one who figures out who can be a Companion, so talk to him. It’s out of my hands.”

“Thanks, big guy,” he said and walked past Farkas.

“What is your name?” Farkas asked.

“Lysander,” he answered waving at the companion, his back turned to him.

Nadja walked up the stairs to join the circle member and crossed her arms eyeing the strange red-head who now walked down the steps towards the sleeping quarters.

“New whelp?” She asked.

“Don’t know.”

 “I don’t like him… Lysander, what the hell of a name is that? Is he an elf?”

Farkas looked down at the barbarian woman. “He doesn’t even dress like a warrior and he smells like a mage. Last time I checked we were a warrior’s guild, not the mage’s school.”

 “You’re quite the yappy dog,” Farkas commented at last causing the woman to shut up.

 

 **Vilkas watched as Koddlak turned the pages of the diary on the table.** He respected the old man as a father so he simply remained in silence as the harbinger surfed through the journal he had brought. A smile crossed the harbinger’s lips and he looked up at the troubled companion, waiting for him to confide his worries.

 The previous job he embarked on, despite successful, had been rather messy. For the first time, Vilkas lost control, he honestly lost control, and it was the most horrifying thing he ever went through. Yes, his job consisted in clearing out bandits and retrieving that journal, but losing control like that… Though he never turned, he had been… unnecessarily brutal and the blood stained journal was proof. He looked at the knuckles of his hands, bruised and red from what he had done. The wolf was still unsettled, burning inside him. It wanted out, it wanted out and it wanted blood.

“It has been hard for you,” Kodlak said, not entirely a question.

“Aye, master,” he answered. “I was unnecessarily savage. I’m afraid I may lose control master.”

“I am not your master, my son,” Kodlak said. “This is the curse we took when we accepted the blood, my boy, there is no way around it. Only we can put a leash on the wolf.”

Vilkas bit his lips and looked at the old man. He envied the old man, the way he was able to control his wolf. Yet, he wondered to what point was his control the result of his willpower or simply the result of his dwindling health. Though the wolf granted them strength and resistance to most diseases, it did not give them a solution against time itself. The old man was sick, sick by time itself, most of his strength and health dwindling as the days went by to the point he had secluded himself to his chambers and barely ever took jobs. He coughed startling Vilkas of his thoughts.

“We made a mistake, all of the sons of Ysgramor made a mistake on taking the blood,” Kodlak spoke. “Even if we have refrained the wolf, the blood still binds us to the Hunting Grounds.”

“But there is hope of a cure… in High Rock, right?” Vilkas asked remembering a rumor Kodlak spoke to him before.

“Yes, Glenpoint, but it is jut a rumor. ‘Till then, you must control your emotions,” Kodlak asked. “Storing them inside won’t aid you, it will only make you lose yourself when you reach the boiling point.”

“Master, I… my problem is the blood, I can still hear the call of the blood.”

Kodlak smiled gently and shook his head. Then he coughed covering his mouth, Vilkas reached forward worried, but the harbinger motioned him to sit back.

“We all do. It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome it.”

“You have my brother and I, obviously. But I don’t know if the rest will go along quite so easily.”

“Leave it to me…”  Koddlak said looking towards the door. “A stranger comes to our hall,” and he motioned Vilkas to be quiet.

There was a knock on the door and it was opened as a man walked in a bit hesitatingly. Vilkas gnarled instantly, how long had that stranger been listening? The man was young looking, tall and exotic, a scent of burning incense and taffy filled the wolf-man’s nostrils. The stranger looked at him then at Koddlak who, flinched surprised as if he knew that person. But what made Vilkas more uncomfortable was the staff, that abomination of a silver pole with screaming faces at the top that liberated the most ominous energy he ever felt.

What was a mage, a witch-elf, doing in Jorrvaskr? The man was clearly a mer, he smelled of a mer and he could smell the magic, even if those were the eyes of a human.

“What do you want, stranger?” Vilkas asked frowning.

“Vilkas…” Kodlak said gently and looked up at the stranger. “May I help you, my boy?”

“I…” the man bit his lip. “We have met before. I’m Lysander, Lysander Fire-Bear.”

Kodalk stared at him for a few seconds, and then he smiled.

“The boy with the Briartheart,” Kodlak said with a chuckle.

“I’m hardly a boy, serah,” the man said with a chuckle.

“You look as green as a boy to me,” Kodlak said with a chuckle. “You’re an elf… Hmm, somehow I am surprised.”

And the elf frowned causing Kodlak to chuckle and continue. “I’m glad to see you are alright, my boy. Did you make safe passage to Winterhold?”

“Let’s just say Darkwater stored an imperial ambush for me and the next day in Helgen, I got to find my dragons,” he said brushing his head with an embarrassed grin. “I was in Helgen when that whole mess went down, at the bright side got a great view of the dragon… Before he nearly roasted me, of course.”

“Then you found the dragons that brought you here.”

“Not exactly, I was expecting to find them dead… Not alive and blooming. But I won’t complain. They sure are amazing sights when you’re cruising the countryside. Not so much when they decide to give chase.”

Kodlak chuckled. “But you are alright, that is what matters. And what brings you here…?”

The elf looked at Vilkas and bit his lip. “Several reasons. But for now, I would like to join the Companions.”

Kodlak narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Would you now?” And he got up. “Here, let me have a look at you?”

The man, got on his knees in front of Kodlak who placed his hands on the man’s face and simply stared at him, then he took his hands and held his fingers looking at them.

“Fire-Bear…” But he repeated and smiled looking at the youngster. “I see…  Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit.”

Watching this all, Vilkas crossed his arms uncomfortable. That man… Kodlak couldn’t possibly be considering it?

“Master, you’re not truly considering accepting him?” Vilkas asked surprised. The harbinger motioned the stranger to get up while he sat back down on his chair.

“I am nobody’s master, Vilkas,” Kodlak said crossing his arms. “And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.”

“Apologies… But perhaps this isn’t the time,” Vilkas complained, no way Kodlak hadn’t noticed the unsettling feel that staff gave. “I have never even heard of this outsider!”

The man lifted a single eyebrow. That only made Vilkas more irritated.

“Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame,” Kodlak said and he smiled at the stranger, Kodlak knew _who_ he was.

“It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.”

“And their arm,” Vilkas grunted discontent.

Kodlak chuckled and coughed out, the younger companion ready to get up but Kodlak motioned him to stay put, diverging his attention to the outsider.

“Of course. How are you in battle, boy?”

“I can handle myself,” and he brushed his head.

Kodlak laughed. “Aiming fireballs at the floor still?”

“Aye,” the boy accented with a shamed grin.

“He’s a mage,” Vilkas started.

“That may be so,” Kodlak repeated. “Can you handle a sword, boy?” And the man tilted his head. “Use that staff without magic?” And he nodded. “What magic do you use?”

“All four schools, but I’m better at Destruction,” he answered.

“Do you use magic that influences the mind of others? Any magic that turns into trickery and cowardice?”

“Only the calming spell when I do not wish to battle an enemy, and muffle to stay silent when I’m trying to pass unnoticed.”

Koddlak nodded. “Any other skills?”

“I can shoot a bow…” he answered. “As long as the target doesn’t move I can… _usually_ hit it… if it’s close enough.”

“If it’s close enough, you’ll have to bash it, not shoot it,” Vilkas grumbled annoyed.

“I see,” Kodlak assented crossing his arms as if he was thinking, then he looked up at the elf again. “Can you promise not to set Jorrvaskr on fire? It is built of wood.”

“I promise.”

 “Very well. This is Vilkas. He will test your arm.”

Vilkas felt his jaw drop. The harbinger could only be joking. The man was a mage! He was going to protest when the old man looked at him, a simple stare.

“Vilkas, take him out to the yard and see what he can do.” There was no discussing that.

“Aye,” Vilkas answered disgruntled beyond belief.

There would be no use in complaining, the Harbinger seemed set on this, Vilkas got up and motioned the newcomer to follow him, but he didn’t bother to wait. All he could hope was the man proved to be what mages were, useless with a sword. If he had no skill, they wouldn’t take him in, so he would indulge the old man. Fight the newcomer and then prove him worthless and kick him out. They had enough useless whelps as it was, with a drunk as Torvar. He was surprised they hadn’t yet voted to expel him. Well, probably because the man was still skilled with the axe, even if he was useless at everything else. 

Vilkas  walked out to the training yard, the newcomer followed. His twin brother, Farkas, was also outside, leaning against the wall by one of the training dummies. His brother eyed the newcomer as he stopped behind him.

“The old man said to have a look at you, so let’s do this,” Vilkas said. When the mage reached for his staff he frowned and growled. “No magic!”

“I wasn’t going to do any,” he said. “It’s uncharged. Without charge it’s like any other pole made of metal.”

Vilkas growled again. “Get that thing away from me,” to which the elf lifted an eyebrow and strapped it back away. “If you don’t have a proper sword you can use one of the training ones, on the rack.”

“Really? Alright,” the elf said rolling his eyes, which made Vilkas grit his teeth in irritation. By Ysmir, he hated High Elves, they were such an arrogant kind.

The elf picked a one-handed iron sword and readied himself, Vilkas pulled for a shield. “Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

“You sure?”

The companion frowned and the elf shrugged charging at Vilkas. The companion received the blow on is shield and staggered back, the elf grinned in defiance and Vilkas countered the attacks. Their sword’s clashed as Vilkas blocked the newcomer effectively with his own sword, blow after blow. The elf was strong, and he was quick. Quick moving, quick reacting, but he lacked a lot of skill, he had strength and speed, but lacked posture and technique. Still, the Companion had to admit his potential, when the elf was able to block Vilkas’ sword with his own.

However, Vilkas was caught off guard when the newcomer charged left and Vilkas blocked with his shield, one hit and the other, when he attacked right, forcing the companion to pull his sword to stop the blow. He was being backed up against the dummy. Frowning, with a pant, Vilkas yelled and pushed the elf back, charging at him until, with one skillful strike he was able to disarm the elf. The sword was thrown back and the elf staggered back, almost instinctively reaching for his staff, but he froze once Vilkas pointed the tip of his sword at his neck.

“Bloody Oblivion,” he grumbled at the companion and grinned. “I guess you win then.”

Vilkas sheathed his sword away. “You have a good arm, I’ll give you that mage. Not bad. But next time won’t be so easy.”

 “You might just make it,” Vilkas had to admit. He looked at his brother who brushed his chin with curiosity and then looked back at Jorrvaskr, Skjor was watching, an expression of interest on his face. The elf had potential, it was a fact. “But for now, you’re still a whelp to us, new blood. So you do what we tell you.”

The elf’s face lighted up and he smiled.

 “Why does a mage want to join a warrior’s guild?” Vilkas suddenly asked crossing his arms.

“I wish to learn how to fight. Do I need a better reason than that?” He asked.

“We’re a warrior’s guild. We aren’t here to entertain the curiosity of a witch-elf.”

“Oh good, so you do have your mind in the right place,” the new blood tilted his head and frowned.  “I owe it to Kodlak.”

"You owe it to Kodlak?"

"He saved my life a few months back and suggested I joined, Aela too," he answered crossing his arms.

“If you wanted to learn, why didn’t you join the College, then?”

“Who says I didn’t?” He asked crossing his arms widening his grin almost as if in provocation.

“We don’t take college mages, witch-elf. Take your witchery back to Winterhold.”

“If you didn’t take mages, then why did Kodlak sent you to test my arm? Why did he invite me over? Why did Aela too?"

Vilkas fell silent. So Kodlak saved him, and he already knew Aela. But it had been months since the last time Kodlak left Jorrvaskr and if that was so, it had already been a long while. "If they invited you before, why did you wait so long?" Yes, why didn't he come when they invited him? "Why now?" 

"I had things to deal with,” he answered.

"What things?"

"Things that are non of your business," he answered frowning. Vilgas narrowed his eyes.

“Since you are acceptable to be in the guild, it is my business. All you do is our business, so you better watch the way you speak with me, whelp.”

The elf grinned at him and bowed down opening his arms to the side. “My apologies… Companion.”

Vilkas growled in annoyance. “Where do you come from?”

“I was in Wayfarer in High Rock before coming here. I was studying magic there under a tutor. My tutor advised me to find a new teacher.”

“Why did you come to Skyrim, then?”

“By Akatosh, why would a mage come to such an accepting place as Skyrim?!” The elf asked with a mocking tone. Vilkas growled at him and he flinched. “Calm down, wolf, no need to bare your fangs at me! My reasons Winterhold and dragons. I joined you merry bunch for several reasons, one is Kodlak, so let's leave it at that.”

“You didn’t need to join us for thos…”

“What happened to your hands?” Suddenly the elf interrupted pointing at Vilkas’ hands. Vilkas looked down, he hadn’t put his glove on, so he could see his bruised knuckles. He gnarled at the elf and clenched his hands into fists.

“What happened to _your_ hands?” He asked pointing with his head at the elf’s arms.

The elf lifted them and smiled, but said nothing. He could smell the blood seeping from them. The companion furrowed his bow. The elf was hiding something. What were that elf’s intentions? He couldn’t tell, but his presence, everything about him was… unsettling.  He would keep his eyes on that whelp, something about him was odd.

“Can I go now?” The elf asked.

“No, witch-elf. Here’s my sword,” and he handed it over to the whelp. “Go take it up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful, it’s probably worth more than you are.”

“Really?!” The elf said and sighed. “The name is Lysander, not witch…”

“I gave you a task to do, _whelp_.”

The elf left go of an annoyed grunt and walked away, leaving Vilkas behind. Skjor walked down to Vilkas with his arms crossed.

“Fiesty, spicy and fiery,” Skjor said as he sniffed the air. “He smells of blood, magic and… hmm… something else...” Upon Vilkas glower Skjor chuckled. “What were you talking about?”

“That elf’s hiding something...”

“Other than the daedric staff on his back?” He asked and Vilkas widened his eyes in surprise and looked at the older man besides him.

“Daedric… what?”

“That staff, it’s a daedric artifact…” And he grinned like a wolf upon Vilkas stare of surprise. “Whelp, I am old enough and have had the blood long enough to recognize something like that when I see it.”

“By Ysmir, what was Kodlak thinking?! A mage…”

“Kodlak probably knows… A mage,” and a dangerous smirk crossed Skjor’s face and he brushed his chin. "A mage... I wonder what spells he uses."

“Don’t even think of it.”

“About what, brother?” Skjor asked.

“You know well. You’re not going to drag a witch-elf with you and Aela to deal with the Silver-hand.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Skjor said with an amused grin.

“Go call Farkas an idiot, _brother_ ,” Vilkas said with disdain.

Skjor laughed. “Well, he might be a honorable adition.”

“He’s a mage… He will turn to trickery soon enough…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Lysander’s intentions are vague.  
> Skjor and VIlkas don't see eye to eye... They don't.  
> And Vilkas hates mages.
> 
> When I did this quest in the game everyone was outside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lysander walked down the steps to the sleeping quarters of Jorrvaskr**. He didn’t actually join the companions to become their errand boy, he had been that long enough before. It was clear the one they called Vilkas didn’t like him, and it wasn’t like he made it easier for the man to “like” him. He couldn’t help it but respond that way. Also he saw the looks the woman named Nadja gave him. They were warriors, nord warriors so he shouldn’t be surprised they wouldn’t be entirely alright with him. He was a mage, and even if only half, he was still an elf. _Witch-elf…_ By Akatosh, he hated that name. He had to remind himself that not all nords were as openminded as his father, and for Akatosh’s sake, Ysgramor was known for having led a mass genocide that eventually led to the downfall of the Falmer – of course said Falmer did it first, but still.

He had only joined the Companions because of his father, what his father told, what he knew. _He_ started there. The companiosns could aid him with his magic problem, even if it was just by teaching him how to use his body, also, if what his father told him was true, he had to pass on what he learned with his old man to Kodlak and the Companions. He wondered to what point what his father said was true. For now, however, he would focus on developing the physical limitations of his body. His father would often laugh that even the Dragon Priests learnt how to wield a sword and he knew the Companions could help him with that aspect…

Regardless, he carried Aela’s shield with him and made his way to Aela’s room. When he reached the hallways, he heard a man’s voice speaking something about the whelps and how messy they were. In silence Lysander simply heard. He frowned worried when he heard the men comment they would get themselves killed, but it was only when Aela asked if he would be the cause that he bit his lips. A lot of secrets in Jorrvaskr, he mumbled to himself.

Biting his lip, he knocked at the door and when they fell silent, he walked in. “I have your shield.”

 “Ah, good. I’ve been waiting for this. Good to see you made it up here,” a beautiful red-headed woman said. He already knew her, Aela left clear she wanted him in the Companions.

“Do you know this one?” The man standing in front of her asked as he stared at Lysander from his one functional eye. He was handsome and Lysander had to admit that most of the circle was comprised of handsome people. Aela was beautiful, Vilkas was handsome, he didn’t give a good look to the big guy at the entrance and Kodlak, though old, had a certain charm to him. And now that half bald, half blind man also had a certain beauty.

 _Go to Skyrim, you’ll find beautiful nords._ A friend once told him.

“I saw him training with Vilkas earlier in the yard.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you gave him quite a thrashing,” Aela said grinning.

Lysander shrugged in answer, sure if by that she meant he was disarmed and cornered in a matter of seconds, and when he started so well. He looked at the man, though the man seemed rather kind, there was a certain danger in him on that one functional silver eye.

“Don’t let Vilkas catch you saying that.”

“Don’t worry Skjor,” she answered chuckling and turned to face Lysander. “Do you think you could handle Vilkas in a real fight?”

“Depends on the type of battle,” he said lifting his left eyebrow. “Magic? Sure. Sword? Nooo… I think you already saw the outcome.”

She grinned widely and gave a good look at him, dangerous silver eyes analyzing him. She was planning something. “Very well. Here, let’s have Farkas show you where you’ll be resting your head.”

And on call the big guy he met when he first arrived appeared at the door. Only now Lysander was giving him a good look. The man looked a lot like Vilkas, only bigger, a lot bigger, with longer hair and looking harsher than the other, wearing the same smudged warpaint around the dangerously beautiful sharp silver eyes. Actually, all of the Circle had silver eyes…

Silver eyes…

He wondered if Vilkas and Farkas were brothers, they certainly looked alike, even their names matched. Farkas wore the same armor as the rest of the circle men, and much like the other, he wore a greatsword on his back. The man looked fierce and strong, but by the nine he was dangerously handsome like a beautiful wolf not to be trifled with.

“You called?” He asked monochromatically. And Lysander actually chuckled to himself. That was the same guy that a few hours ago said he didn’t trust him. Though the sense of danger remained, by his speech alone, he realized he was quite harmless if not bothered. Almost like a domesticated wolf. He couldn’t help but imagine that nonchalant big guy as the big clumsy wolf with a heart of gold you couldn’t help but want to pet.

“Of course we did, Icebrain,” Aela grunted and the elf had to hold a chuckle when the larger man looked at her impassive, as if he was used to it. “Show this new blood where the rest of the whelps sleep.”

“New blood?” And Farkas asked. “Oh, I remember you. Come on, follow me.” And so the elf did, as the large man walked in front of him calmly but steady.

“Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they are good people,” he started chatting.

Lysander smiled, though he had to hold himself not to comment on what he overheard.

“They challenge us to be our best,” he continued on.

“Well, Aela sure makes a good tease,” Lysander mumbled in answer. “If I hadn’t already asked her, I would have guessed her for a courier before joining you guys. She always finds me, always. Like a courier, with no letter and impending doom looming over her.”

Farkas laughed at that. “That’s Aela, always with her eyes on a target. Nice to have a new face around, though. It gets boring here sometimes. I hope we keep you, this can be a rough life.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I can take it rough,” he said grinning deviously. And Farkas frowned confused.

 “So tell me, Companion,” Lysander started. “Are you and Vilkas brothers?”

“Aye, and you can call me Farkas,” he answered. “We’re twins,” he explained. Farkas watched as surprise assaulted the elf’s features. It was interesting, how the elf’s expression changed so quickly.

“I never met twins before!” Lysander said with a playful grin. “Wish I had a twin. Then we’d pretend we were one another.”

“We did that when we were younger, but not anymore. Do you have brothers?” Farkas asked curious. He heard his brother once say that it was harder for elves to have children than humans… something to do with Ysgramor’s story. That was something he was good, at remembering. His brother always said he had a mammoth’s memory, and a mammoth’s… brain.

“Oh no, I have a brother,” he explained. “Older brother, but we have a large gap from one another … When I was born he was already a legate in the legion.”

“Really? That’s unusual!”

“No so much, elves live longer than humans,” he shrugged it off.

And Farkas whistled to himself. “He must be old then.”

“Nah,” he said shaking his head. “He looks pretty much your age, though not as charming.”

Farkas blinked surprised and brushed his head embarrassed, not entirely sure how to respond to that. It wasn’t everyday a man… mer complimented him. He wondered if Lysander was one of those. That didn’t particularly bother him, he was open-minded, and in his youth he had given a few turns in the hay with as many men as women. But he wasn’t like his brother, he wasn’t good with words nor was he good at flirting. He was good at watching and hearing, understanding others even, but not words, never complicated words, never complicated situations, never magic or politics, never history or the stars.

It was his own fault, while his brother studied and learned, he ran around like a pup on heat, hunting and fooling around. He wasn’t smart, he knew it, and he was slow, but he was good at understanding people, but not good at flirting. Actually, he was quite awkward at courting, and half of his experiences resulted from being so drunk he would regret it the next morning or Vilkas having gotten the mate for him. The elf grinned at him, amused with his reaction. He probably looked weird right now, so he tried to put on his serious face once more.

“The quarters are up here. Just pick a bed an fall in it when you’re tired.”

“Do you sleep here too?” Lysander asked with curiosity.

“No…” Farkas answered. “Tilma will keep the place clean. She always has.”

And the old woman showed at the door. “This is Tilma. Tilma, meet Lysander.”

“I know you, dearie,” she said with a smile and the elf frowned as if wondering from where. “I have been tending the Companions of Jorrvaskr ever since I can remember. I have watched over many Companions and I will watch over you too.”

A bit too theatrically, Lysander bowed down at the old woman reaching for her hand kissing  her knuckle quite politely. “I thank you, m’Lady. I will try my best to keep my corner of the room clean, just so that you will not need to deal with my smelly boots.”

The old woman laughed and Farkas actually found himself snickering. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you, dearie?” She asked laughing. “Don’t pick a bed close to Torvar, he doesn’t wash when he’s drunk.”

“Thank you, ma’am, will do.”

And the old lady left waving at Lysander.

“Why’d you do that all bowing thing?” Farkas started chuckling at how happy Tilma walked away, her silver wolf following her with a wagging tail.

“I’m a softy for kids and old ladies,” he said with a smile and a shrug.

“I see… Alight, so here you are. Looks like the others are eager to meet you.”

Lysander peeked inside again, the men on one side, the women on the other. “Once you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself, Skjor and Vilkas might have things for you to do.”

“Hmmm… Do _you_ have something for me to do?” He asked curious. Farkas tilted his head.

“Yes, but you’ll have to wait for tomorrow,” Farkas said crossing his arms.

“Aye… I can still do some jobs before going to bed,” he said. “Wouldn’t be the first.”

“We’ve gotten a letter about someone needing some muscle right here in Whiterun Hold.”

“Oooh, a brawl,” the elf said grinning. “Who do I have to punch and why?”

“I don’t know what the fight is about, and that’s not our business anyway.”

“Aaww, but finding that out is the best part,” the elf said and Farkas frowned. “Sorry, go on.”

“Well, the person is probably asleep at this time, so you’ll have to wait for tomorrow,” Farkas said. “Someone wants you to beat up Jon Battle-Born.”

“Awww… But he’s the only decent Battle-Born in town!” The elf said. “Why would I want to punch him?”

“Don’t know, it’s the job,” Farkas answered.

“I think I’ll just go talk with the old man then,” he said looking down to Kodlak’s doors.

Farkas nodded and left the new blood to his business, he watched as the elf walked into the whelp’s quarters to leave most of his gear. He heard Nadja complaining over him followed by a quick retort from the elf, another complaint, one more quick retort and a slap. A few seconds later the elf exited rubbing his cheek and a worried Ria chased after him. He wondered what was that the elf told her, but whatever it was left Nadja furious.

The Companion made his way to his room, but still watched the elf as he made his way down the hall to talk with Kodlak, Ria actually followed, asking to see his cheek, but once he stopped at the door, defeated Ria left. The man had a confident stride, that was sure, and the sweet scent of taffy and incense remained in the air for him to enjoy. He wondered what type of man he was. He seemed someone playful, almost careless even, but there was something more, as if there were more layers to him.

Sometime later he heard his own brother walk over to his room. Farkas had already changed from armor to casual clothes and washed the warpaint off his face. He knew his brother’s routine well, he would take off his armor, wash and sit in the bed with his back turned to the door while looking in his end table for a book to read. Once he waited it out, Farkas sneaked into his brother’s room barefoot. Vilkas had taken off his armor and washed his face also, he was wearing simple clothes; he was looking for a book to read and, with a playfull grin, Farkas jumped to his brother’s bed with a growl. His twin jumped out of the bed startled and frowned once Farkas threw his pillow at him.

“Get off my bed idiot,” Vilkas grumbled with a grin and threw the pillow back at his brother.

“Rawr, brother! I am your bed wolf! Here to smother you wih the fluffyness of oafyness… of… wolfiness? ”

“Wolfyness? Okay… haven’t I told you not to jump to my bed like that?” Vilkas asked frowning. “The day you break it in half, I’m moving to your room!”

“Nahaa!” Farkas did rolling in his brother’s bedlike an oversized child, laughing. “You’ll sleep on the floor! Or we can share the bed as we did as kids!”

“For me to wake up in the middle of the floor after you kick me off the bed?!” Vilkas asked with a laugh. “No way, you’re sleeping on the floor, idiot!”

“Awww… But we could snuggle.”

“You don’t snuggle! You wrap yourself around me and nearly smother me like a snake!”

Farkas laughed and rolled on the bed to lay on his side, facing his brother. “What do you think of the new blood, brother?”

“Huh?”

“The new blood, the elf, Lysander. What do you think of him?”

“I don’t trust him,” Vilkas answered turning around to face his brother.

“Hummm… there’s something about him,” Farkas answered. “But he doesn’t look like a bad guy, a bit careless maybe. How was he fighting?”

Vilkas sat down by his brother. “Hmmm… He lacks skill.”

“So no hope?”

“There’s hope. He’s strong, not as much as us, and as he stands now, he doesn’t stand a chance against either of us, but he’s strong and fast, really fast,” he crossed his arms and Farkas started running his fingers up and down his spine. “He’s competent… but I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like him for a good reason, or do you just don’t like him ‘cause he’s a mage?” Farkas asked.

“Did you know that staff he carries is a daedric artifact?”

“Daedric… what?”

“Artifact.”

“What does that mean?” Farkas asked tilting his head.

“It means that staff belonged to a daedra… maybe he’s a daedra worshiper,” Vilkas gnarled and sat down on the bed. Farkas sat up.

“Is that a bad thing?” Farkas asked. “I mean… we are kinda… daedric too.”

“I don’t know yet,” and he looked down. “Why would a witch-elf come here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to give up on magic.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Vilkas moving his shoulders tiredly. Farkas smiled, he knew that was the way his brother had to ask him to rub his back. The bigger twin always did that, ever since they were kids, rubbed his brother’s back, because he had big hands and he always knew where to touch. His brother on his side would often tease him, but he would also defend his brother with his claws.

“What happened to your hands?” Farkas asked once he saw the bruised knuckles.

Vilkas brushed his knuckles. “I lost… control. When my sword fell I just… hit them until my knuckles bled. Scared the nine out of Ria.”

“You should hunt,” Farkas simply said and started massaging his brother’s shoulders. He was tense like a rock. Vilkas had always been more tense then Farkas. While Farkas was easygoing and took one day at the time with little cares, Vilkas always worried and angst over even the slightest of things.

“I can’t… I won’t,” Vilkas said shaking his head, and he flinched forward with a groan once Farkas pressed two nerves on his shoulder plates, causing his to shiver. “Aaaahh gods… Farkas, those hands!” Farkas laughed.

“Aye, dad used to say my hands were blessed by Kyne herself,” he said shaking his big and long calloused hands.

“Jergen was an idiot,” Vilkas said with a grunt. “He also said you were only useful for a bard, but were too stupid for it, that’s why he called them _blessed_. He was trying to be nice with you… you were always… more… sensible than me…”

“Aye, I’d burst into tears and you’d suck it up like a little man. But he was the closest to a father anyway, even if he was awful at it,” Farkas said laughing. “Besides, my blessed hands didn’t go to waste, Skjor and Kodlak taught me well and I can still play the lute even better than Mikael.”

“And fight better than him…” Vilkas leaned his head back while his brother kept massaging his back.

“You should hunt, I don’t like seeing my brother running around like this.”

“I made a promise to myself and Kodlak. I am giving up on the blood.”

“I’m giving up on the blood too, but when the hunt haunts me, I still hunt,” Farkas mumbled. “I don’t believe I have your self control.”

“Kodlak believes there to be a cure, but he hasn’t told me what it is.”

“I hope so,” Farkas mumbled pulling himself to sit besides his brother.

After a few hours, Farkas left his brother’s room, leaving his brother to sleep when he fell asleep on him. He heard the sound of people talking and walked out into the hallway. Kodlak’s door was open and the new whelp sat where Vilkas always did. Kodlak was by his desk writting something, the two spoke.

Koddlak asked the new blood, not entirely looking at him. “Will you give up on Winterhold?”

“I can’t, I love those merry bunch to Aetherius and back!” He said laughing. “Besides, Tolfdir is my tutor. I do not wish to abandon his teachings.”

“So Tolfdir is the mage responsible for you?”

“Aye,” he answered. “Should be Faralda, since she’s a destruction mage and I have a knack for blowing stuff up…”

Kodlak laughed. “I have seen that first hand. That’s how I found you the first time. I followed the explosions.”

“Aye! Anyway, after I showed Tolfdir my problem with magic, he started tutoring me. Not every day he gets a student like me. Usually you only suffer the influence of one constellation… I think I suffer from the two because they have a lot in common.”

“Blessed and cursed, literaly,” Kodlak said shaking his head. “And dwelling with daedras…”

“I aided Shegorath, I don’t worship him. I only worship Akatosh. Yes, I don’t deny I loved using the Wabbajack, but I don’t worship the daedra. If it was Meridia asking my aid, I’d help her, if it was Molag Bal or Dagon, I’d tell them to sod off.”

Kodlak laughed and then frowned. “What about Hircine?”

The man frowned. “Depends... My father believed Hircine was the most honorable of the Daedras.”

“I see,” Kodlak brushed his chin. “The same father who said all the companions were elf eating werewolves?”

Lysander laughed, a clear and strong laugh. “Aye, I have no idea where he got that from! Anyway, I should write to Tolfdir…”

“Does Tolfdir know you are here?”

“He suggested for me to learn how to wield a melee weapon and to get used to wearing a armor, but I don’t think he meant: _join the companions_. He said something about understanding my body better. You know the rest of the story.”

“I see.”

“But I should tell him anyway, he will be worried. If I don’t he’ll start thinking a dragon gobbled me up and with my luck, it’s just a matter of time.”

“According to what you have shown me, it seems you have what it takes to deal with a dragon,” Kodlak said laughing. “I think it is good you remain in the college, as long as you do not stray from what we Companions are. I am glad to know you are studying under Tolfdir. He’s a smart man, he’s a good man. There aren’t many good mages like him.”

“Aye, and he’s helping me. And with this situation with Alduin, I need magic now more than ever,” and he sighed.

“You were the last person I thought would join us.”

“With my luck, I no longer dismiss anything. Anything that’s thrown at me, I’m taking it!” He said with a sigh.

And he started rambling, Kodlak just remained silent and left the elf get it out of his system.

“I went from a nameless useless scholar, squire?... Servant or whatever the hell I was to the last hope of this world. And half of the time I nearly kill myself with my own fireballs. I came here to study dragons! I wanted to continue what my father set aside, translate word walls, study the dragon cult, maybe find the priest's masks. Not fight a dragon god!”

“Akatosh is really messing with me! _Oh yeah… you’re devoted to me aren’t you, Lisie, dearie? Do you have anything to do? Yes? Oh, Magic problem? Oh Dragon Cult? Great! I have just the thing for you! I mean, the dragon cult thing, not the magic thing! Okay? So… Dragons… go kill my evil older son, kay? He’s an oversized Dragon that devours spirits. So, yes, give him a beating! Kay? Bye. Try not to kill yourself with a fireball on the way, oh and Tullius will try to chop off your head! Oh and someone in the Dark Brotherhood wants your ass… And the thalmor too… Kay? Yes? Have faith in me, the great Akatosh shall watch over you, and you’ll be just fine…_ just fiine _. Yes… So… Bye! Have fun! Tata!”_

Kodlak tried not to laugh upon the elf’s annoyed pout and brushed his head. “Look at the bright side, at least the Greybea…”

When they noticed Farkas, Kodlak fell silent and simply smiled, got up and closed the door on him.  Farkas remained there watching the door until Tilma’s wolf barked at him. Startled, Farkas left to his own bedroom. Dragons, Alduin and Greybeards?

What was that all about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tame the beast mods ads a series of pets and domesticated animals to some npcs. Among them there is a frostbite spider in Morthal that belongs to the jarls son and Tilma has a pet silver wolf right there in Jorrvaskr and a skeever in the blue palace.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter 4 **

** 10th of Evening Star **

**It was cold, it was freezing cold**. It was windy and a mist loomed in the sky as dark clouds threatened to fall down on them bringing rain and thunder. Though it usually didn’t snow in Whiterun and most of southern Skyrim except for the highest regions such as High Hrothgar, it was still quite cold. The whelps had constrained themselves to the indoors and the jobs were slow currently, it was too cold for anyone to bother. Farkas was used to such cold as most Nords.

 It had been two weeks since the new blood joined them, the man mostly wandered around Whiterun, sometimes disappearing for most of the day. The times he remained in Jorrvaskr he would often go talk with Kodlak, but they always kept the door closed. Farkas didn’t had many chances to talk with the man, but he could tell the man was warming up to Ria and Tilma. Aela seemed to approve of him and Skjor, more than anything, seemed in overall curious over the mage. Athis and Torvar didn’t seem to mind the newcomer. He slept on their side, except when Torvar was drunk, the man would often disappear on those days and Farkas had to wonder if the man had home in Whiterun or if he was out doing nightly jobs.

As for his brother? He was still uncomfortable with the mage. Though he had disarmed and bested the elf, for a second or two, he saw himself cornered, something that wasn’t easy to get to. He admitted that the whelp would make an adequate Companion, but he still held the fact that he was a mage as a problem. More than Farkas, Vilkas hated mages, hated magic and all those who dwelled in it. He could only hope the mage wouldn’t give his brother more reasons to hate it.

Farkas was curious over the mage too. The man was handsome, the man smelled good, and the man seemed good with the words. There was something different about him, more than meets the eye, and that left Farkas curious, interested even. Maybe his attraction was only physical, but what if there was more to the man?

Regardless, that day, when he walked outside to train, dragging a groggy hangover Torvar and Athis completely furrowed in furs, he found the New Blood training. He crossed his arms from the porch and watched. Lysander wore an intricate light leather red colored armor that was furred under, and a black fur hood and shawl, covering most of his face, that hideous staff on his back. Small puffs of breath came from under the hood in a steady beat, from parted lips that Farkas couldn’t help but stare. He realized he had more flesh on his lower lip then upper one and actually wonder how biting that lip would feel.

He held a longbow of dwemer fabric, and used fitting arrows, constantly firing them at a regular rhythm at the target, though missing completely. With an amused chuckle Farkas realized Lysander spoke with himself as he shot the arrows. He stepped forwards a few paces and shot, hitting the target, grumbled annoyed and retreated back a set number of paces and shot again, missing. He wore clean bandages for once.

Farkas motioned Athis and Torvar to spar, telling them every now and then to fix their posture or to watch how they handled their weapons. Once they seemed well oriented he walked towards the elf.

“If it doesn’t stand much of a challenge if it doesn’t move,” Farkas started patting the elf on the shoulder.

Lysander jumped startled and the arrow he was readying was shot straight into the sky, only to, five seconds later, have an impaled pigeon falling down by their feet. Farkas wasn’t entirely sure if he should laugh or be shocked. The elf cursed under breath and pinched his nose.

“By Talos! Seems that’s the only way I’ll ever hit one of those!” He said and started chuckling, Farkas found himself snickering too. Lysander turned around to face the companion. Those beautiful green eyes were quite visible under his hood, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, making the freckles on his face stand out.

“Don’t mages need to know how to aim?”

“Of course they do, that’s why I always use fireballs, I don’t really aim them, just shoot at the ground and hope it’s close enough to make damage,” he explained, he was going to add something more but held himself biting his lip. Walking to the pigeon Lysander pulled the arrow out of the pigeon with a sigh and readied the bow again to restart shooting.

“But you’re an elf,” Farkas pressed on. The elf was young, but he couldn’t be that young, and if he wasn’t, how come he hadn’t learnt how to do that yet.

“By Ysmir! I’m an elf?! Are my ears pointy?!” And he left the bow reaching for his ears. “By the nine! I am an elf! My ears are pointy and everything! This explains EVERYTHING!”

Farkas frowned and Lysander snorted amused. “Being an elf isn’t synonymous with being a good mage, you know that right? I may have not always have gotten the best education. Spent longer running around serving as an assistant to the talented than learning. Besides, my magic is… _unstable_? Doesn’t help anyone, not even myself.”

 “Then why not join the college?”

“I am in the college,” he answered lowering his bow when he failed the target redundantly and looked at Farkas with an annoyed smile from over his shoulder. “But the learning how to aim thing is debatable. Since I have been there Brelyna turned me green, then turned me into a horse, Onmund asked me to retrieve his amulet which made have to go explore a Nordic ruin and test out J’Zargo’s explosive scrolls on Draugr, which nearly killed me. And I have learnt with Rumarin’s incredible imagination, five different ways to prank a thalmor using magic!”

Farkas chuckled. “You pranked a thalmor?!”

“Aye, lovely Ancano, self-proclaimed adviser to the Archmage,” Lysander confessed laughing. “The man’s there to cause problems, everyone knows it, so we all keep our mouths shut around Ancano.”

“Why don’t you just kick him out, then?” Farkas asked.

“We can’t kick out Ancano! Are you crazy? If we kick him out we’ll get Elenwen probing our arses! Let Ancano stay, the fool can be ignored, Elenwen I’m not so sure! Besides, he’s handsome enough, if anything else, he’s good to stare at… Besides, annoys the crap out of him.”

“You like the thalmor?”

“Mara, no!” He said. “But I know a handsome man when I see him. Like you, under all that grime and warpaint there’s a lovely and handsome man there.”

Farkas blushed unaware if he should feel complimented or offended over the fact that he just called him dirty. “You like men?”

“Men, women, Humans, Khajiit, Argonians, mers and even dragons! Give and receive, wolf, top and bottom,” he said shrugging. “I’m open-minded, why limit yourself?”

Farkas blushed shocked, unaware if the man was even being serious, though around there no one really cared about what fruit you liked, the racial prejudice existed, and to be honest, Farkas wished he was as open as that mer. He couldn’t just get up to people and just He knew his brother wouldn’t mind his preference, he never did, and he did court a man or two, more than once, upon Farkas request. He still remembered their youth when Vilkas would just walk up to a guy Farkas was crushing on and simply say: “My twin brother has a crush on you,” as if it was the most natural thing ever.

And Lysander grinned, a wolfish grin. “Never tried a dragon though, or a werewolf, or a werebear, and I definitely will never try an undead! The dragon would probably kill me though, the size is undeniably a problem. If I could reduce them to the size of a horse… maybe it would work. One of the college teachers might know a spell. Maybe Brelyna can accidently do it.”

“Are you being serious?” Farkas asked shocked. Lysander laughed out.

“Just kidding, you silly wolf,” he said. “I am open-minded, but I’m not promiscuous. I have had boyfriends and girlfriends in the past, that’s a fact, but I have never been with someone I didn’t deeply care for and that I didn’t like. Several reasons lead me to lose them.”

 “What? Why did you _lose_ them?”

“Too many sparks,” and he grinned, but there was a certain regret and sadness on it.

The elf looked down, it didn’t seem like he wanted to go any deeper into that topic, it seemed that whatever it was, it was something that both pained and left the him uncomfortable. Farkas wondered what might have happened to his previous lovers. Did they die? Did they leave him? Or did _he_ leave them? He was a free spirit that was sure, he might have traveled and lost touch with them, or simply found someone else.

“If you’re in the college,” Farkas started trying to change the subject. “Then why did you join us?”

The elf grunted and Farkas realized he made a mistake asking that. “Seriously? We’re going through these questions again? Every companion has already asked me that. Your brother included, the unfortunate moments we got caught together in the same room. Can’t a guy just join a warrior guild and multitask between magic and melee?”

“No…” Farkas answered and once the elf frowned Farkas flinched and shook his head. The last thing he wanted for the elf to dislike him. “No… I mean… I’m just curious that’s all… It’s the first time we get a mage wanting to join.”

“No, it’s not,” the elf said frowning more. “I asked Kodlak if my frequency in the college of Winterhold would be an issue, he had no problem with it. He has no problem with my magic, he has no problem with me being gold skinned. So, please, get off my back. ‘Kay wolf?”

 Farkas opened his mouth a little, but said nothing more. It was obvious Lysander was no longer enjoying that conversation, as if he wanted to run away and leave bow, arrows and Farkas behind. He was uncomfortable with Farkas that was obvious now. He sighed when the elf missed the target completely again. The elf sighed finally a lowed the bow pinching his nose.

“Sorry… I just, I like magic, so please… respect that. Most of my life people annoyed me because I couldn’t do magic, when I finally learn magic, everyone annoys me because I use magic… so please,” he asked looking at Farkas with pleading eyes. Brushing his head Farkas nodded and Lysander smiled gently at him, an honest smile. He readied the bow again and shooting, only to miss.

“Maybe you should stick to a sword?”

“I like the bow,” Lysander answered with a sigh.

“You’re stubborn…” Farkas mumbled, remarkably, amused, and the elf laughed.

“Yes I am, I had to take _something_ after my father …” and Lysander missed a target again. “By Akatosh, it’s not even moving! How can I be so bad?!”

“A sword is better,” Farkas said.

Lysander laughed and lowered the bow. “Not when you get an arrow between your eyes even before you can pull out the sword. And you’re clearly not fast enough to get close to a ranger before he shoots said arrow.”

“Aren’t you good at anything else?”

“I can fight unarmed, but I don’t like it, and I know how to use a quarterstaff. But you guys have a problem with anything that ends with a _staff_.”

“Alright then. Try to imagine the arrow’s flight,” Farkas suggested and he walked over to the elf. “Humm… Your posture is wrong, I think…”

And Farkas positioned himself behind the elf. He placed both hands on the whelp’s hips and Lysander flinched startled, almost escaping Farkas grasp, but the Companions held him in place. Lysander looked straight at him, a red flush crossing his nose and cheeks on surprised green eyes. Farkas felt his heart skip a beat. By the Nine he was _cute_! Farkas looked at the target and frowned, trying to keep his mind from those golden features and blushed freckles. He had seen Aela train the whelps enough times to memorize what she did. He had an amazing memory, he never forgot anything, important or not.

“According to Aela, your posture is wrong,” Farkas spoke. “You’re shooting with your right hand, so...”

The elf simply nodded, his lean hips on Farkas’ hands. The Companion briefly noted in his mind that, if he wanted, he could easily lace his arms around those hips and waist and pull that lean, slim body against his, and it seemed to fit so well. He was taller than him only by a few inches, but he was slimmer, almost _smaller_ in a way, but it was not a body without strength and that was tempting.

“Okay, your left foot has to be at the front,” the elf did as Farkas instructed, then Farkas kicked his feet aside a little. “Spread your legs.”

Lysander laughed. “At least buy me a drink first, wolf!” Farkas frowned confused then made a silent oh and chuckled embarrassed.

“Humm… Aye… Spread your legs, shoulder width, I think,” Farkas mumbled, blushing embarrassed. Had the man no notion that his firm backside was pressed so deliciously against Farkas and was, yet, flirting with him? The elf looked down and his feet and widened the gap between them. “Humm… now… I…”

“Rotate your feet,” they heard Aela who was watching with an amused grin from the porch, a piece of bread on her hand. “You have to imagine there’s a cross on the floor, it’s the line from which you’re shooting. Your feet must be parallel to it,” Farkas blushed looking at his shield sister who grinned.

“Continue brother, you were doing well.”

“Ah… aye… I think you’re supposed to rotate your hips now…” Farkas said and actually moved those hips to the side. “Okay… Now, straight back… Lift your chin.”

The elf did as he was told.

“Aim with your shoulders,” Aela said crossing her arms.

Both Lysander and Farkas looked back at her with a frown. “Aim with my shoulders? How do you aim with your shoulders?!” Lysander asked.

Aela chuckled and walked down, Farkas left go of the elf and Aela passed by him, grinning deviously at her shield brother. She was shorter than the elf, so she got on the tips of her boots and drew a line with her finger across, from the arrow tip to his shoulders.

“You must imagine a line, starting from the tip of the arrow to,” and she traced her finger to his right elbow, “across your shoulder to your elbow. A straight line, that’s the direction of the arrow in usual conditions. Buck your shoulders downwards, imgine the line, at a certain distance it starts curving,” she said and she whispered to him, “do you see it?”

Farkas frowned crossing his arms, watching a bit embarrassed what Aela did. Was she hitting on Lysander or teasing him? He wasn’t sure, maybe the two, but Aela never showed interest on a whelp before, this one wouldn’t be the first, he was sure. To a way, he hoped she was just teasing him, especially having in count the way the elf looked back at her when she whispered that, the left eyebrow deliciously lifting and a grin crossing his lips. Then he looked forward and left go of the arrow. It hit straight into the bullseye.

Aela grinned and Farkas lifted his eyebrows surprised. The elf grinned widely and looked back at Aela and then at Farkas, doing the sweetest smile ever.

“Hey! I did it! I hit it! Wooot! I bloody hit it!” And he fisted the air in celebration. “Thank you, Aela.”

He looked at Aela who simply nodded. Then, turning around, grinning still, Lysander walked over to Farkas, playfully pressing his knuckle against Farkas’ armor plate, a smile that simply stole the Companion’s breath crossed the elf’s cold touched features.

“Thanks, big guy!”

Farkas nodded. “Don’t mention it… You should train with Aela. I’m not an archer.”

“But you sure helped,” Lysander replied with a smile.

“Indeed brother, you helped quite well,” Aela said and patted the elf on his back causing him to flinch away with what Farkas could swear was a giggle.

When Aela frowned surprised and Farkas tilted his head, the elf flushed red embaressed. “Humm… huh…” He started.

 “New blood, Torvar!” Suddenly they heard someone call from the porch. They looked towards it and he saw Farkas’ brother standing up there with a face of utter annoyance. “I have a job for you two, stop scampering about and follow me.”

“Oh, look, job,” he said smirking, still embaressed and bowing his head at Aela and Farkas he ran inside followed by Torvar.

Aela and Farkas turned around and Aela crossed her arms. Once the elf disappeared throught the door, the she-wolf turned towards her shield brother, a devious grin in her face, filled with ill intent that left the bigger Companion uncomfortable. What was she plotting? She walked over to Farkas and patted him the shoulder.

“I’d never take your for an archer, brother,” she said mockingly. “Next time we get a bow lover around here, I’ll let you train him, or was that one a special case?”

Farkas blushed and brushed his arm. “I… I just remembered what I saw you do with the other whelps and did the same, there was… no need to bother you.”

“No need indeed, I certainly wouldn’t pass a chance to put my hands on those hips,” she teased him and when he flinched she laughed out loud.

“N-no! It’s not like that,” he said.

“It isn’t? Then you won’t mind if I put my hands on that elf, do you?” She asked and when Farkas paled up, his eyes widening, she laughed out. “Oh, don’t worry brother! He’s not my type, besides, you two look so cute together. I can picture it in my mind already.”

“It… really isn’t like that,” Farkas mumbled, yet, oddly relieved.

“Do tell, brother, do tell,” she said laughing and patted him on the shoulder walking away to Athis.

**Vilkas waited inside for the mage.** So maybe it was immature of him to avoid the mage, but still, he wasn’t okay with his presence on Jorrvaskr. All mages were the same, their magic brought nothing but suffering. The fact that the mage carried a daedric artifact just made it worst. What if he was a necromancer? Or a daedra worshiper? They were dangerous. He had heard the tales of the Boethiath worshipers who sacrificed their loved ones just to have a glimpse of the prince, and that the worshipers of Molag Bal had quite the violent sexual deviations.

He saw how his brother acted with the elf. He wasn’t one to aid a whelp with something he wasn’t specifically inclined to. Teaching the elf archery? That was just odd. There was attraction there, that was a fact, and why wouldn’t there be? The elf was just Farkas type, albeit too tall, but he was slim, smart and different enough to turn a gaze. He wasn’t girly but didn’t look like a brute either, just the handsome enough. Vilkas was no idiot, he knew very well to which side his brother swings. He didn’t actually mind what his brother’s preferences were and actually aided him before with conquests and courting. But still, his brother never turned to a mage, the closest thing to a mage he ever turned to was Jensen, but he was a healer, it was different.

As he thought that the door burst open and the mage walked in, green eyes looked him up and once he found him he walked over to him. He carried the hideous staff again.

“Why do you insist in carrying that _thing_ when we have clearly expressed we don’t like it?” Vilkas asked once he stopped.

“What? The Wabbajack? It’s uncharged. It doesn’t do anything.”

“I don’t care, I don’t want that thing around,” Vilkas said.

“Well, I can’t actually leave it behind either, not particularly safe,” he said crossing his arms. “Look, I won’t use this staff, okay? It’s uncharged, see it as an accessory.”

The Companion growled and eyed the screaming face. That thing was dangerous, he could just tell it. Charged or not, that thing was dangerous.

“Where’d you get it?” Vilkas asked.

“Oh… at a tea party,” Lysander answered brushing his head.

“At a tea party? You’re kidding, right?” Vilkas barked at him and once he saw that pretentious grin he just growled. “You had a tea party with a daedra?”

The elf narrowed his eyes. “So you do know what this is… Yes, I had tea and cheese with Sheogorath and Pelagius the Mad. May have entertained the mad prince for a while by making Pelagius’ soul more or less tormented.”

Vilkas felt his jaw drop at the elf’s bluntness. “Daedric artifacts are not welcome here.”

“This thing is armless! It’s uncharged! I couldn’t hit a bunny with it!”

“I don’t care! That either stays behind, or you do, witch-elf! I don’t ever want to see that here or I will personally get rid of it.”

“Don’t call me that! You can’t kick me out because of my staff!”

“Do you really think so? We don’t need daedra worshipers and witch-elves among our ranks! You stain the name of Ysgramor.”

The elf grunted, anger showing in his face. Vilkas realized for the first time he had a circle of gold in his eyes, and it seemed to grow.

“Oh yes, I stain the name of a mass murderer and his bunch of merry men! Funny! Hilarous even! Hypocrite, since Kodlak has a daedra’s heart under his desk,” the elf said crossing his arms.  “What did you say about daedra things not being welcomed here? Where do you reckon he got it? Maybe he ripped it out of a dremora’s rib case… Or maybe he asked your racist ass to get it for him!”

The amount of the defiance on that last phrase alone was enough to send Vilkas wolf into a fit of anger. How dared that… witch-elf speak with him that way? How dared he insinuate that about Kodlak, about their Harbinger? Who did he think he was? Not even Torvar, when he was drunk, had the insolence to speak with him with such audacity. Gnarling Vilkas stepped forward to the elf, the elf looked down at him with a raised eyebrow, defiant, insolent, arrogant. The wolf twitched and turned and growled and by the Nine, he wanted to bare his fangs on his neck. Clenching his fist he struck his knuckle with full force into the elf’s diaphragm. Lysander huffed surprised and hunched over himself upon the impact, wrapping his arms around his torso, when the punch deprived him of air.

“If you ever insinuate that again, witch-elf, or if you ever speak with me like that, next time, it will be my sword!” Vilkas threatened, baring his fangs at him, his eyes gold with rage.

Coughing and panting the elf bit his lip and looked at him. “Bite me… wolf!”

Vilkas snarled and was going to struck him again when he heard. “Vilkas, that’s enough!”

Skjor, who watched the whole ordeal walked over to them. “That is enough.”

“The witch-elf…”

 “Enough Vilkas, you too new blood,” Skjor said looking at him. “You two are putting up a show! It’s almost disgraceful.”

“Then… he better stop calling me that…” Lysander started, gasping.

“Witch-elf? That’s what you are. He’s carrying Sheogorath’s staff!”

“Fucking dog! Quit calling me…”

“ENOUGH! What are you two, five?!” Skjor yelled and the two men flinched and stepped back. “Sheogorath?... I did sense a hint of madness coming from that thing…”

The elf fell silent and stood upright, breathing harshly. “Yes… It’s uncharged, so it doesn’t do anything as it stands.”

“I see, leave it behind then. Vilkas has a job for you,” Skjor ordered. The elf bit his lip. “Give it to Kodlak to watch over if you’re worried with what it may do. Now go.”

The elf grunted something and walked away, leaving the two circle members behind. Vilkas sighed and looked at Skjor who grabbed him by the shoulders, an expression of worry and irritation on his face. “Damnit Vilkas, look at yourself! Your eyes! What was that all about?!”

“You didn’t hear what he said about Kodlak, what he said of Ysgramor and what he insinuated of the Companions!” Vilkas growled.

“I heard it well! We all did and he’s not that wrong, I’m sorry to admit it. You of all know what started the Companions. Blood and honor. _Blood_ … and honor…” Skjor said with a sigh and pressed his fingers against his forehead. “For gods’ sake, Vilkas.”

“He’s a daedra worshiper!”

“And what are we, brother?” Skjor whispered, Vilkas flinched and Skjor sighed. “Did you forget what we are, who we belong to?”

“I won’t… give my soul to Hircine,” Vilkas said, slowing down his breath as he tried to calm down.

“That is your choice, so is his. Just because he carries the staff of Sheogorath doesn’t mean anything!” Skjor stated. “Damnit Vilkas, you need to get your anger in check. You need to calm down! If Kodlak trusts that mage to be in our ranks then give him a chance.”

“There’s something… odd about him!” Vilkas said.

“Yes, I have noticed. And I think he himself noticed there’s something odd about us. He might not know what we are, but he has his suspicions, and if nothing, you might have just given him a good hint…” and Skjor rubbed his chin.

“If this goes on, he’ll learn off the blood,” Skjor said. “That kid isn’t has clueless as he looks. He’s hiding something. We all sense it. I wonder how he would react to the blood…”

“No! This is our curse! I will not allow you to pass it on anyone else.”

“It is your curse, our blessing,” Skjor crossed his arms. “It is up to him if he wants the blood.”

The two stared at one another with burning resentment. At the beginning, Vilkas accepted the blood well, the boon, the strength, the speed that came with it, but currently he loathed the curse, the constant thirst, the constant need to hunt, the anger, the clouded judgement, the clouded thoughts with ideas of a hunt. He hated it, Skjor fully embraced it. They heard the elf return and Skjor gave Vilkas a look of warning before walking away, patting the elf on the shoulder.  

“Ready?” Vilkas asked when the elf walked up to him, no staff with him, only a knapsack.

He asked frowning. “What’s the job?”

“Torvar,” Vilkas called and the drunk walked over.

“Here! What’s the job?!”

“We got a letter from Pelagia farm.”

“Giant again?” Lysander asked and Vilkas gnarled at him.

“Shut up,” Vilkas ordered, the elf passed his fingers on his lips as if saying they were sewn. “A citizen of Whiterun has been kidnapped. The Companions have been asked for assistance, and we shall answer. Particularly when the pay is as good as this.”

“Of course you wouldn’t do it for free,” the elf grumbled rolling his eyes. “What did you say of it being all about honor?”

Torvar flinched and threw a glance of utter dismay and amusement at the elf, obviously amused by both the fact that someone had the guts to defy Vilkas and also the fact that Vilkas would _kill_ said someone for that. Vilkas simply growled. “You’re dying to have my sword lodged up your arse, aren’t you witch-elf?!”

“Depends on what sword,” he said and grinned wiggling his eyebrows, to this, Torvar really started snickering.

“New Blood!” Skjor, who was still overlooking everything, called in tone of warning. The elf shook his head and sighed.

“I’ll be quiet then,” he resigned and Vilkas narrowed his eyes in warning. Then he grumbled to himself though Torvar and Vilkas could hear it clearly. “You people have no sense of humor… Sheesh. I had more fun at Elenwen’s party!”

Vilkas chose to ignore the rumbles of the elf. Feeding their animosity wasn’t helping in keeping the elf’s mouth shut or his wolf calm.

“As I was saying, according to the letter of job, Nimriel was taken captive by Hajvarr Iron-Hand. Hajvarr and his bandits have been terrorizing travelers around our hold for long enough, so we are going in there to rescue Nimriel and deal with their lout once and for all.”

Lysander crossed his arms listening with curiosity while Torvar asked. “Wait, are the two of us going alone?” And he pointed at the elf. “I can handle myself well, but I won’t handle a witch-elf’s back!”

The elf frowned. “Witch-elf? I reckon next you are going to ask me if I’m a thalmor.”

“Are you?” Torvar asked and the elf rolled his eyes as if he was used to that.

 “Shut up you two. I am going with you to access your value and how you fare,” Vilkas said. “If you don’t do well together, that defeats the purpose of being Companions. To be a Companion is to know you can count on a shield brother to watch for you.”

Torvar shrugged idly.

“When are we going?”

“In an hour, gather your things, and join me at the entrance,” Vilkas ordered then he frowned at the elf. “Get moving! I shudder to think what might happen if you’re too late.”

The two left the Companion to gather their weapons and change armor. Though Lysander kept the light armor he wore, but decided to go check Eorlund for a sword. If Vilkas threw a tantrum over the Wabbajack, he imagined an enchanted sword would be as much of a hassle. As he walked outside he found Farkas making his way in. Once he saw Lysander he stopped him.

“Have you spoken with my brother?” He asked.

The elf smiled and nodded. “Aye, rescue mission. Some girl got kidnapped by Hajrvarr Iron-Hand.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need a sword before I leave, just in case I get out of arrows,” the elf explained and Farkas chuckled. “Though I can blow my way through bandits quite well, I have no intention to have to deal with your brother’s fits.”

“You probably don’t need it, just remember, picture the arrow, aim with your shoulders,” Farkas said.

“I’ll need it, big guy,” he said chuckling. “Your brother doesn’t like me, I don’t want to give him reasons to hate me more… Though I can’t seem to be able to put my tongue in check… Hmmm.”

Farkas laughed and patted the elf on the shoulder, the man flinched and stepped back, causing Farkas to frown. The elf bit his lip blushing a little – by the nine, that blush was adorable – and brushed his arm. “I’ll go check if Eorlund has a sword he can sell me.”

Chuckling Farkas walked over to the weapons rack a chose a good steel sword. “Use this one.”

“Thanks, big guy.”

When Vilkas and the two companions left it was still broad day light. Farkas was on the mesh hall, watching. He was worried about that job, his gut warned him something bad was at hand. Vilkas and a mage would only result in disaster. There was this grim feeling that something would happen to the whelps. He just hoped it wouldn’t be the New Blood, the guy just started and was already having discussions with Vilkas. Skjor had shared with Farkas the argument between the New Blood and his brother. He knew Vilkas disliked mages, especially elven mages. Their past, what happened to them and lead them to lose their birth family affected Vilkas, who he was, deeply and above all what he thought of mages. So he wasn’t surprised with how he reacted with the elf, he was expecting it. The elf seemed dedicated and willing to be a Companion, but he seemed more than reluctant on giving up on the magic aspect. He understood in a way, giving up on the wolf was also harsh for him, magic might be even harder for the elf. High Elves were born with magic. Maybe if the elf was as passive as he first appeared things wouldn’t be like this, but it was now clear that Lysander wasn’t as submissive and shy as he first showed and if provoked, he had quite the bark and bite.

Farkas could only wish that everything would go well. His brother was a smart man, even if he had a bad temper had had anger issues with the blood, his brother was a smart man, he wouldn’t put the whelps on unnecessary danger.


	5. Chapter 5

Vilkas leaned over Torvar, wrapping a bandage around his knee as blood trickled to the ground. The Companion wasn’t entirely sure if he should be mad. They headed east of Honningbrew Meadeary. White River Watch cave was just across the bridge. Quickly, they scouted the area and to his satisfaction and surprise, the elf instantly spotted out the imperial archer by the entrance. The elf was able to lay two arrows on the man, but non dealt a killing blow, so Torvar, wielding his ax, ran at the bandit and struck him across the skull after blocking out a blow, only to get hit on the back by an arrow, straight through the knee. Vilkas and Lysander were able to put down the second bandit without great delay, but the other whelp was wounded. It wasn’t a crippling blow, but he would be out of commission for a few days, even with healing and if that wasn’t enough, neither of the whelps brought potions.

“I forgot!” Torvar had excused himself. Well, the lout certainly didn’t forget his mead – by Ysgramor’s balls, Torvar! Mead?!

“I can heal myself,” the elf had said and Vilkas had to growl. “Oh wait… I can’t use magic… Let’s hope I don’t get hit by anything then!”

“You can’t heal others?” Vilkas asked staring at him. “What good is a mage who can’t heal?!”

“I can _heal_ myself,” he said, leaning his body back, crossing his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Either all magic, or no magic at all. Since I’m not allowed to use magic, I won’t. Besides, I _don’t_ heal.”

 “I see you’re also useless as a mage.”

“Well… Thank you,” the elf said with disdain bowing down while a half-hearted smile was thrown at Vilkas, the elf’s eyes narrowed in anger. “That so very kind of you, _honorable_ companion.”

“As I said, useless,” Vilkas said tying the bandage around Torvar’s knee, looking away in an attempt to refrain the wolf who growled within him at the elf’s arrogant reaction.

The elf rolled his eyes shaking his head. “You should change your name to Farandir, or Tullius, or both. Tullandir…” and he shivered. “I have a feeling that person would give me nightmares.”

Vilkas looked at him, squinting his brows and narrowing his eyes. That elf really enjoyed aggravating him. He chose to ignore him. Once he was done he aided the drunk up, but the man couldn’t put his foot down and wouldn’t be able to make more than a pace without help. The Jarl’s guards were on the other side of the bridge, too busy scurrying for dragons and Stormcloaks to aid them. They couldn’t take Torvar with them to finish the mission, it seemed Vilkas would have to tread on with Lysander alone, and he wasn’t particularly thrilled with it. Yet again, the moment he got that job he wasn’t entirely too thrilled with whom he had to take with him. He’d take Athis and Ria every day, but those two?

Great… A witch and a drunk…

“Remain out here, hidden,” Vilkas instructed. “Me and the elf…”

“Lysander,” he reminded him.

“Me and the _whelp_ will go on,” he continued ignoring the elf who once more rolled his eyes with a sigh and pinched his nose. The elf turned around lifting his hands and letting them fall. Vilkas watched as he went to check the corpses, checking their armors, knapsacks and pockets for anything of value.

“If we find health potions we will come back for you.”

“Got it, got my axes and enough ale to last me,” Torvar said and Vilkas growled. “For later, for later! Ale is for later!”

“Good,” Vilkas warned and walked up to the entrance of the cave.

Lysander was hanging over the corpses, holding a note on his hand, reading it, besides it he also held a silver necklace, apparently something he took from the corpse. “We’re not looting the dead,” Vilkas warned.

The elf lifted one eyebrow and shrugged it off. “As you wish,” he said storing the note away in his clothes, obviously ignoring Vilkas warning as he made sure to take the bandit’s money with himself.

The two treaded inward the cave, when they spotted an old man sitting at a table inside. Lysander readied his bow and Vilkas reached for his sword. He noticed the elf narrowed his eyes lowering the bow, staring at a book on top of the table. The man didn’t seem to notice them yet, Vilkas motioned the elf to follow him, who, slightly surprised took his eyes from the book and silently followed Vilkas. As they got closer, suddenly the elf placed his hand on Vilkas arm as if instructing him to put the sword down. The companion furrowed his brow and looked back at the elf.

“Eh? Who's there? Rodulf, that you?” The man suddenly said as if he heard them. Vilkas flinched and looked forward. It took Vilkas a while to realize the man was blind, as his eyes seemed normal, but it was clear now that he couldn’t see them, his eyes were focused in nothing.

“He’s blind,” Lysander suddenly said putting back his bow.

“Who’s with you, Rodulf?” The man asked when he heard Lysander.

Though that wasn’t their normal course of action, Vilkas saw no honor in attacking a defenseless blind old man. The fact that they left a blind man guarding the entrance was, in itself, ironic, almost like some sort of joke. He never knew bandits had a sense of humor. Either that or they were stupid. He felt somewhat uncomfortable with that situation… A blind man.

What should they do? Should they kill him? There was no honor in that, yet if the man was left alone surrounded by dead bandits that would be his end.

“Rodulf?”

“Aye?” Vilkas said hoping he sounded even the slightest like one of the men outside. “I have new recruits.”

“Aah good!” The blind man said turning a page of his book. “Boss was looking for you - said he'd be up at the summit. Better not keep him waiting.”

Vilkas walked past the man, his armor clinking at every step. Lysander however slouched back. Once Vilkas turned around to check what the elf was doing, he realized the elf was checking the blind man’s book.  Narrowing his eyes, an aggravated frown, he motioned his head to the elf for him to follow. The elf nodded and patting the blind man on the shoulder, he quickly left the man and his book alone and followed the Companion, who simply gave him a heavy glare of irritation. They took the path right, past piled up loot from the bandit attacks, more than once Vilkas found himself glowering when the elf, distracted, went to check some interesting item on a shelf.

There wasn’t anything valuable around, but Vilkas caught the elf catching alchemy ingredients. Was he an alchemist besides a mage? It was a possibility, it seemed like mages, enchanters and alchemists were all always bundled up in the same package. They followed path up the tunnel, until they overheard talking. The two ducked down and saw two bandits grumbling about getting rid Hajvarr and his uncle.

“Ooh, we have a little bit of an insurgence going on,” Lysander whispered with a chuckle.

“I’d be questioning his leadership too if my boss picked up a blind man for a guard.”

“He picked a mage, and you’re certainly discontent,” the elf said and Vilkas looked at him. The man tilted his head and lifted his eyebrows with a grin. “The guy’s family,” Lysander casually added. “That’s probably why  Hajvarr had him around. It’s his uncle.”

Grumbling to himself Vilkas looked forward. “Let’s put those two down.”

Pulling his bow, Lysander readied an arrow. Two bandits, like sitting skeevers waiting to be mowed down. Vilkas pulled off his sword and charged forward to the heat of the battle. The two bandits charged at him, pulling of their sword they struck at the Companion. Vilkas blocked the blows with his greatsword, as he heard an arrow raze straight by his head and hit one of the bandits through the neck. The bandit staggered back gurgling in blood, letting go of the sword as he reached for the arrow. Vilkas struck at the other, blocking a blow and swing his greatsword in one swift slash at his chest, opening a gash through the man’s chest. The man staggered back, falling into the campfire, and once of the ground, the companion impaled him through the chest with his sword.

He pulled the sword off and looked back, seeing the elf hanging over the bandit he had killed with the arrow, pulling the arrow from the man’s neck and cleaning the blood off on his fur armor. The man started checking the other guys armor and for a second, Vilkas realized, that much like a vulture over flesh, the elf was checking the bandit’s boots and actually started pulling them off.

“What are you doing?” Vilkas asked.

The elf pulled the boots off the bandit; black leather bound knee high boots, and started checking his pockets for anything of value. “He won’t need them anymore, but they are far nicer than mine.”

“We are not corpse looters!” Vilkas said walking over.

The elf looked at Vilkas with one raised eyebrow, that scent like incense and taffy, and fire, aggressively attacked Vilkas senses and he growled uncomfortable. What was that scent?

“The great Companions don’t loot corpses? It’s far more _honorable_ to loot the living, I reckon.”

Vilkas walked forward towards the elf and grabbed his arm. “We are **_not_** thieves!”

“Are we seriously going to argue over rather I take or not a dead man’s boots?!” The elf suddenly asked yanking his arm free. Vilkas only now realized how tall the elf was.He was taller than Farkas. He was taller than Farkas, and though Farkas was stronger, there was a lingering danger on those green gold striked eyes that he never saw on his brother, not even when he was mad.

“I care for the living, not the dead. He’s dead, and wherever he went, he probably is better off than us. If you want to call me a thief, be my guest.”

“We don’t take thieves kindly!” Vilkas said crossing his arms.

The elf sat down and took off his boots, his eyes on Vilkas, defiant. He put the boots on and strapped the strips of black leather around to keep them tight.

“You don’t take anything kindly. However you are home to drunks, bandits, whores, mercenaries, hypocrites and don’t get me started about the whole silver eyes thing, because that can’t just be a happy coincidence…”

Vilkas froze instantly; his features paling up and he had to take hold of all of his self control not to growl at the newblood. The elf was staring at him, and he realized the man flinched, as if he made his accusation without thinking. But as soon as that slight fear crossed the elf’s eyes, it was quickly replaced by anger and arrogance. That only served to aggravate Vilkas further.

What did he meant by that comment about their eyes? Did he know something? The silver eyes were a characteristic of being a werewolf, could it be that he knew that? Most people dismissed their eye color, for light eyes were common among nords, but it was still too big of a coincidence for the entire Circle to have silver eyes.

“What do you mean by that?” Vilkas growled.

“Do you really want me to elaborate?” He asked tying up the second boot. He moved his feet inside the boots and smiled, though, it was a smile of contentment.

They were good boots.

Crossing his arms the companion looked at the elf narrowing his eyes, who simply looked at his “new” boots and set the old and actually quite run down leather boots aside. He seemed to be thinking about what to say, furrowing his brows as if he was well aware he had said too much. Then he sighed.

“Yet, your problem is only with me,” and he got up. “I don’t know the others that well, nor do I know you, but you... you don’t know me. Yet you are dedicated to be against everything I do. Please… we have more pressing things to do, like a woman to save.”

Silent, Vilkas broke his gaze with the elf. He had a point, they should just go on. He motioned the elf to follow, though he gave him a warning glare. Maybe he was being too picky with the elf, the other whelps did loot corpses and take anything of value from dungeons and lairs, but Vilkas disliked seeing the dead be disrespected. They took money but he never allowed them to strip them of their armor, it was disrespectful to him. It reminded him of back then… what the witches did to his parents, what they were going to do to Farkas, how they stripped them of their…

No, he wouldn’t go there. They had a woman to save.

He looked back at the elf, who had gotten up, the elf was looking at him irritated. Suddenly, out of nowhere, startled, Lysander quickly pulled for his bow and arrow with such swiftness that Vilkas was caught off guard. The time Vilkas reached for his sword, the elf had already readied an arrow and shot. Almost by instinct, Vilkas closed his eyes, certain he was going to get shot, but it was when the arrow passed by his shoulder towards behind him that he realized he wasn’t the target.

A yell was heard, and Vilkas turned around to face a bandit who had been sneaking on them. He was now on the ground clutching to his crotch as blood started staining his hands, with an arrow pointing out of… well, where his family jewels should be. Vilkas was not sure if that was skill or a lucky shot, but when he looked at the elf and saw the man’s widened eyes and slightly amused grin did he realize that yes… that was a hell of a lucky shot!

“Nice shot…” Vilkas had to admit and he walked over to the bandit.

The companion silenced the bandit quickly and without delay. One strike to the heart was all it took. He motioned the elf to follow and so he did, but not before checking the bandit for valuables – Vilkas growled at that. They found a sleeping area with five bed rolls, a fur helmet which they had no interest in and a potion of minor stamina which helped neither, though, the elf made sure to pick it up and shove it into a his knapsack. He didn’t particularly explain why. He also stopped to check a few books a couple of time, but disregarded them quite quickly, but made sure to take one with him. Going up, they found the place where the bandit had come out off, and an alchemy lab, when Vilkas caught the elf gathering ingredients, Vilkas asked.

“Do you have ingredients for healing potions?”

The elf turned around. “I… don’t know,” he confessed. “I’m not an alchemist,” he explained.

“Then why are you gathering ingredients?”

“Arcadia and Nurelion pay well for them,” he explained.

The Companion nodded at that. Some alchemists did prefer to buy ingredients from adventurers than gathering them themselves. That was a fact. They continued on and caught a couple of bandits discussing over the stupid idea of taming a wolf. That made the companion question even more the bandits’ intelligence. That didn’t seem possible, wolves were savage creatures. Yes, Tilma had a pet silver wolf, but it was one of the previous companions who tamed it for her and Vilkas suspected the blood had a lot to do with it.

The elf, winked at Vilkas and sneaked over to a chain he had spotted on the left side, Vilkas watched curious and frowned when the elf pulled a chain, freeing the wolf. The two had no need to deal with neither the two bandits nor the wolf. The wolf attacked the bandits and tore at their throats and hides with a viciousness of a starving creature. Overhearing the yells, a third bandit who was watching from the platform above ran down with a large poleaxe and killed the wolf. Surprised, the man checked his mates. Vilkas reached for his sword but the elf motioned him to wait. When the bandit grumbled something about the other bandits being dead and turned around to make his way up the platform over the cave, Lysander sneaked out from the tunnel, while Vilkas watched curious.

The elf moved with incredible ease and graciousness, silent like a thief, he treaded his way up behind the bandit, as he pulled his bow from his back. The bandit stopped realizing something was behind him, but the moment he turned on his heels to face it, Lysander shoved the bow into the bandit’s face. The man staggered back taking his hands to his nose cursing and Lysander pulled a dagger from his waist and slit the bandit’s throat quickly. Before the man yelled, with the disturbing skill of an assassin, the elf turned around behind the man and grabbed him by the mouth, effectively silencing him before letting the man fall flat on the floor dead.

Vilkas followed up the platform and noticed as the elf cleaned the blood of his dagger on the bandit’s armor, checking his pockets quickly for money and potions. Lysander got up and smiled at Vilkas somewhat expectantly.

“What was that?” Vilkas growled.

The elf sighed and rolled his eyes. “What did I do now?”

“What was that shit?!” Vilkas asked. “We don’t do things that way! That’s a thief’s way, a murderer’s way, not the way of the Companions.”

“Oh yes,” Lysander said with disdain. “I forgot you take your problems head on like lambs to the slaughter! There could be more. You preferred I went head on with a vicious battle cry and got them all after us?”

“Yes! I’d rather that than this… whatever that shit was!” Vilkas yelled. “You attacked him by the back, you… acted like a…”

“Witch-elf?” He completed for him.

“No. Like a coward from the black hand.”

The elf froze and paled up looking away. Apparently the elf disliked the Dark Brotherhood, others would be proud to be compared to that bunch of mandmen.

“We leave whispers and sneaking to cowards! This is not our way.”

“It is mine,” the elf said. “It is my way, my father’s way! Never limit yourself with false pretenses of honor. You… you don’t know me!”

For the first time, Vilkas realized the elf was starting to get distressed. His mask of confidence and arrogance was starting to fall, to break apart, revealing irritation, disapointment, fear and worry, anxiety. Was the elf actually trying to get Vilkas to accept him? No, he was probably only upset because he didn’t like being scolded. But… No… Was that a pout? Was that fully grown adult pouting? No…

They continued on, though the elf wanted to go back and check the wolf’s cell, but Vilkas stopped him. They finally found Nimriel, unconscious tied up on the ground by a set of barrels up in the platform. The girl’s head was bleeding, but she seemed alive. The elf kneed down by her and for a moment, Vilkas thought he was going to steal from her, but he did not, instead, he just pressed his fingers against her neck and remained that way for a while. She was alive, unconscious but alive. The elf referred she needed healing, but she would be fine. Vilkas nodded and instructed Lysander to follow. Nimriel wasn’t going anyway, but Hajvarr would and they were going to deal with him.

Making their way up the overlook, they were greeted by a sight that very well explained the name. They could see the White River and a great distance of road up to Whiterun. No wonder the bandits chose to settle there. With the Civil War and now the dragon situation going on, the guards wouldn’t go that far and they could easily watch carriages and travelers to attack across the road. They found Hajvarr with his back turned to them, wearing a full set of steel armor and a large sword. When he heard them he turned around. If he was scared he didn’t let on, but it was obvious they were the last thing he expected.

“How… how did you get here?” He asked.

“You should pick your guards better,” Vilkas explained.

“Ulfr…” the man suddenly said, and Vilkas realized there was worry in his tone. “You will regret coming here.”

The man pulled his sword from his back and so did Vilkas. The two charged at each other, their sword clashed Vilkas pushed that sword back. Hajvarr was worth his reputation, the man had skilled and if he followed a different path, he might have even been a good companion, but alas he had not gone that way. Vilkas, smaller than Hajvarr, ducked under him, when he throw a slash at the Companion. The man was capable of getting behind Hajvarr. He saw the elf, holding the bow with a readied arrow and he shot, hitting Hajvarr in the shoulder. Vilkas realized that all this time Lysander was waiting for Vilkas to get off the way so he could shoot the bandit. Hajvarr cursed and charged at the elf, letting go of Vilkas. His sword up, the elf quickly started readying a new arrow, moving sideways. But once the bandit just slashed down at the elf he just went “fuck it”, threw the bow away and arrow, jumping out of the way.

Vilkas ran towards Hajvarr, frowning when he noticed the elf charging up a fire spell on both his hands. When they crossed their eyes, the elf, simply jumped back, annulling the spell and pulling a steel sword from his buckle, to, unsuccessfully fail at blocking Hajvarr. Vilkas heard a yell of pain coming from Lysander followed by the oddest thing Vilkas ever heard.

“ _FUS ROH DAH!_ ”

The Companions watched as Hajvaar was suddenly had by a blue gust of wind and the bandit was thrown back until the edge of the overlook like a ragdoll. The companion actually stepped out of the way. Staggered and confused, Hajvarr, remained down and Vilkas looked back at the elf who was clutching his side and had no sword to show for. He looked at Vilkas as if wondering what he was waiting for, and the Companion ran towards Hajvarr, as the bandit got up. The man was confused and was caught by surprise by Vilkas as the companion slashed at the man and finally was able to disarm him, and struck the final blow straight through his armor and chest. Hajvarr yelled in pain and Vilkas pulled the sword out as the bandit fell forward giving his last breath.

He watched as the elf staggered back, he had recovered his bow. “Akatosh’s scaley backside, the guy was tough!”

“I said no magic,” Vilkas said instantly and the elf sighed rolling his eyes. Vilkas realized he was clutching his side. “Where’s you sword?”

“That wasn’t magic… exactly… sort of…” he said and kneed down by Hajvarr, checking what he had. “And he kinda threw it over the edge, so it’s probably down in the river.”

Vilkas frowned and watched as the elf took Hajvarr’s gauntlets. “I said no looting corpses.”

“These are good gauntlets, they are enchanted to fortify dual-handed weapons,” he explained.

“I don’t care.”

“I won’t give it to you, so you don’t need to care,” the elf growled at him.

He watched as Lysander picked a book from the bandit and opened it. He shook his head and left the elf behind reading the book and walked back into the cave. He took it upon himself to pick up Nimriel and carry her. The corpse looter could carry Torvar. A few seconds later the elf came running to join him, though he carried the book he took from Hajvarr. They made their way back to the entrance of the cave through the now clean tunnels. However, they had completely forgotten the blind man, who, wasn’t completely unaware of what transpired on the cave. They found him with two other bandits, waiting up for the two companions.

How had those two eluded the companions? The moment they noticed them, they attacked, Vilkas found himself forced to drop Nimriel, in order to aid the elf in the battle, though the elf quickly put one bandit down with one sole shot between the eyes. One more lucky shot, Vilkas realized. Vilkas charged at the other, who was as quickly dispatched also, after he got shot on the foot leaving him a sitting duck for Vilkas sword. That only left the blind man to deal with, who stood with his fists up, but trembling in fear started retreating.

He stunk of fear, and Vilkas growing irritation boiled within him by this point. He could hear the wolf within him. He was sitting duck, an easy prey, an arrogant idiot and he was going to get what was coming to him. He threw his sword down and walked towards the blind man. He heard the elf’s irritating voice behind him, but could discerne what he said. No, he was going to show that man what got him to ambush them. He ran at the old man and struck his fist at him, blood gushed out of his nose and the old man yelled, falling to the floor and covered his head yelling for him to spare him. Vilkas didn’t stop. That whole job was a joke, a joke towards him, towards his patience and he wouldn’t allow himself to be toyed that way. The drunk, the elf, the magic and now a fucking blind man getting better of him?! Oh no! He wouldn’t allow it.

Someone yelled behind him but he ignored them until. Swift as a warning a arrow grazed straight by his head and hit the wall in front of him. He stopped and growled looking back slowly at the elf who held the bow readied to shoot. He turned back to the old man, gritting his teeth, his heart hammering inside him. Then suddenly…

He was thrown to the floor by the strong blow and took his hands to his head cursing under breath. Looking up he saw the elf had just bashed him in the head with his bow. The elf grabbed the blind man’s arm and told him something, the blind man, sobbing in fear ran inwards the cave, leaving them behind. Vilkas got up irritated and walked over to the elf. Lysander didn’t even had time to brace himself when Vilkas’ fist struck his face, he fell to the floor cursing.

“How dare you?!” Vilkas growled.

“Aagh! You ass!” The elf yelled in pain.

“I’m your ally!”

“You were also about to beat a defenseless blind old man to death, wolf!” Lysander yelled holding his hand over his nose as blood started rushing out of it. He tried to stop the blood from falling. “What about that whole speech of honor you been throwing at me this whole job?”

Vilkas stopped, finally realizing what he was doing. He looked at his hands, they were bleeding again, and bit his lips. He had lost it again, left it till the end, till he exploded. Only this time he ended venting it on a blind man. The elf simply stared in silence, leaning his head back in an attempt to stop the blood. Growling, ashamed at the way he lost his cool in a way that it took the elf to bash him for him to stop, Vilkas walked over to the elf and before he could defend himself, he freed the rest of his frustration into a strike to the gut that got the elf bending over himself and falling to his knees.

“SON OF A DRAGON WHORE!” The elf yelled in pain, holding his gut as he left his forehead touch the ground. Vilkas realized there was blood staining Lysander’s armor. So that was why he yelled earlier and in a way he felt pleased for causing further arm to the elf. He was… unnaturally pleased, like the wolf was raveling in that.

“That’s for hitting me in the head and shooting at me. Let’s go.”

The elf grumbled something under breath that seemed very close to: “I hope you drown in your own piss… I hope a jester stabs you in the eye… I hope a dragon gobbles you up and that a troll rapes you!”

“Let’s go,” Vilkas ordered and he walked back to Nimriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reached page 50! Yey. In case your wondering, here is how Lysander looks like.  
> http://leonoriel.tumblr.com/post/87715613508/lysander-my-third-dragonborn-am-i-the-only-one
> 
> Also... Vilkas are you looking for excuses to hate that elf?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So extended cities is a fun mod, though it kills my framerate. Any good mods like that one for Riften, Windhelm, Whiterun and Markath?
> 
> That aside, there’s a lot of just talking on this one.

**Farkas sat on his bed,** twiddling pegs of his lute with big calloused fingers as he tried to tune the strings. Carelessly he hummed the notes as he tried to tune it. The big companion took no pride in calling himself some sort of bard or musician, but he knew a song or two. He knew age of oppression, though he would never openly sing it to the Companions as they were all legion supporters, at least, so he believed. But he normally didn’t sing, unless he was drunk and a handsome man asked him to. Usually he would hum the melodies in order to catch the notes, but nothing further than that. So he sat there humming the notes as he tried to catch them correctly.

“Humm… brother, you would make quite the bard,” Aela said mockingly as she appeared at the door. “If only you could read…”

Farkas didn’t even hear her and was caught by surprise by his shield-sister’s voice. He stopped turning the pegs and averted his eyes from the lute to her. Aela stood in simple clothes at the entrance of his room, an amused grin crossed her lips, most of her feminine shape, as usual, by display. She was a beauty and during heat season she did give the males of the pack a run for their money, him included, though he heavily doubted he’d ever pursue her if it wasn’t the wolf making him do it, he never really eyed the women of Whiterun. Wolves were drawn by instinct to mate with females, and Aela, being the only female in the pack, she drew the attention of the other to her, it was bound to happen, her sweet, spicy scent drew them.

“I don’t need to read to be able to crack skulls open,” Farkas said setting his lute by the bed.

“True,” Aela said chuckling. “You need to be good at something,  Icebrain.”

Upon Farkas’ annoyed frown she laughed and shook her head. “Your brother has arrived.”

She grinned once her shield brother perked up a slight smile and got up. “He did? Where is he? Is he alright?”

“Obviously, but it seems like Torvar took an arrow to the knee…” Aela said. “I wonder if Whiterun has any guard ranks left.”

A snort escaped the big guy’s lips upon her comment. That constant comment from the guards was starting to become a running gag around mercenaries, adventurers and the companions. It was impossible so many “got an arrow to the knee”, but the excuse just caught on and it prevented the guard from doing anything.

“They didn’t take Health Potions, so they had to wait to return to Whiterun in order to give him proper healing,” Aela continued on.

Nodding Farkas looked away. They didn’t often carry health potions, they didn’t usually need them. The Companions were usually skilled enough to avoid injury and even when they didn’t, the beast blood had granted them extended resilience and strength not to speak of their regeneration rate. The scars remained, but the wounds would always close and heal. The whelps were the ones responsible for potions. Farkas himself never carried them, they would prove unhandy if he was forced into wolf form while in battle, but his brother was usually careful to carry a couple of them.

“And the new blood?”

“Has a black eye and a gash on his side,” she explained. “He apparently went head to head with Hajvarr and the bandit unharmed him in seconds, by the way, he lost your sword.”

Sword? What sword? The training sword? He didn’t exactly care, the whelps had been wounded in a job while with his brother! That wasn’t supposed to happen, Vilkas never left that happen. He knew his brother well, the warrior was skilled, intelligent and effective, and he wasn’t one to leave those at his care get hurt, he never left the whelps get hurt before, he would always find a way to pull them out of harms way. So what had happened there? Had the New Blood walked himself into danger despite Vilkas attempts, or had his brother not look after him as he was supposed to? Or could he have been distracted by something?

“And is he alright?”

“Oh, just fine, Tilma took a look at him and stitched him right back up. She sent one of the whelps to go get healing potions in the morning for him as we have already run out of them with the drunk. As for the black eye, he refused to take a steak to his face - something about it being un-hygienic.”

She shrugged moving her hand in a twirling motion and Farkas laughed at that. The man had a black eye, was living between sweaty warriors and was worrying over the steak being dirty.

“Still, don’t be overly surprised if one of these days your brother shows up with a black eye also.”

“Why…” Farkas started. “Ooooh… Vilkas gave him the black eye?”

“Obviously.”

“Why would my brother punch the New Blood?”

“Why do you think he would? That elf has a sod of a sharp tongue. He probably used magic, your brother barked at him and he barked back.”

Though the entire scene seemed somewhat ridiculous, it made Farkas however unnaturally uneasy. Vilkas was a vengeful person, if the elf had done something to unpleased Vilkas, his brother would get even with him, his brother would make his life harsh and being a mage alone was already enough reason to antagonize him.

“Your brother is an idiot, that mage is not as weak or harmless as he appears, he’s taunting a sleeping dragon,” Aela said shaking her head.

Tilting his head Farkas got up crossing his arms somewhat surprised. That seemed… unusual. Where had that come from? Could it be that Aela knew something about the New Blood they did not.

“What do you mean? The kid can barely aim,” Farkas pointed out.

“Yes,” Aela admitted looking away, her brow furrowed in thought. “But I overheard something… but…”

“But what?” Farkas asked.

“Can you keep a secret, Icebrain?” She looked straight at him.

He frowned in answer.

“Don’t bare your fangs at me, brother,” Aela said lifting her hands. “During my job in Winterhold last week, I got to learn a few things on the college about our little mage.”

 “He’s hardly little. So, what dark past does he have?” Farkas asked with a playful grin filled of curiosity, brushing his hands together as he walked closer.

“They don’t know. They know as much about him as we do. He comes from High Rock, he’s a mixbreed, apparently one of his parents was an Altmer, I’m betting on his father due to his looks. He’s under direct tutorship of Tolfdir, directed by his previous master. He seems quite versed in destruction magic.”

“And why did he join us?”

“Tolfdir sent him to learn how to fight, but apparently he wasn’t talking about joining the Companions, just learning alternatives to magic. But other than that, Tolfdir refused to say anything about the elf of any considerable substance. Only thing I know of his past was that his father was some short of warrior mage. But I found out something else that’s more interesting.”

“Go on,” Farkas asked crossing his arms.

“Apparently first day in that school, our lovely New Blood killed a dragon,” she said pointing her finger at him.

Almost choking of surprise Farkas jumped forward. “A-a dr-dragon?!”

“Aye, brother,” she said. “The thing chased him all the way to the college and he killed it on its grounds. J’Zargo said our New Blood was hoping it would give up on him, but didn’t. I can see why an elf his size would be a nice appetizer for a dragon.”

“Impossible! Dragons don’t exist!”

“After West Tower you still think that? I have seen those giant lizards myself!” Aela said crossing her arms over her chest, unpleased.

“But the kid… killing a dragon?”

“But that’s not the best part. J’Zargo says he… absorbed the dragon’s soul.”

“Now I’m calling mammoth shite on that one, Aela! I mean all that crap of dragons and dragon souls and dragonborns is exaggerated enough… but absorving dragon souls? Like a walking soul gem? Impossible!” Farkas barked out chuckling. “And J’Zargo? Who’s J’Zargo?”

“A Khajit mage at the college,” Aela said. “The best, mind you.”

Farkas frowned harsher shaking his head and she chuckled. She always had a thing for hairy men, but they usually involved more canine attributes than khajiit.

“I think that was just the moon sugar talking.”

“Maybe, but still… there’s something off about that mage,” she said looking away, serious once more. “I think you should go dragon hunting with him.”

“Dragon hunting?” Farkas asked with a inquisitive smile and walked over to his shield sister.

“Just to see if it’s true.”

Putting his large hands on her shoulder he pressed his forehead against hers in a brotherly way. “Aela… Don’t worry about the kid. That’s all rumors. He’s just a mage and mages are weird. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“And on his arse while you’re at it?” She asked lifting her eyebrows provokingly and Farkas blushed frowning, his hands falling of her shoulders. Aela laughed. “You’re too easy brother.”

“S-shut up.”

“Come on, the kid has a nice arse,” Aela teased him further, turning around to face the door. “Even for a mangy little elf.”

“He’s anything but little.”

“True, brother,” she said grinning, crossing her arms she faced him. “Very true.”

“Aela…” Farkas warned frowning as if he knew she was going to say something bad.

“Whaaat? Ria wanted to see if the rod was golden with red engravements, I simply latched on for the show!” Aela said laughing. “And it was…”

“You got to be kidding!”

“Tilma had all the fun though, unwrapping the rod.”

“By Ysmir, and the two of you even made Tilma go through that?!”

“Oh come on! I’m just messing with you!” She said laughing. “Got you all worked out, didn’t I, Icebrain?” Upon his frown she laughed more, she used to tease him so hard when he was a kid, still did. Walking over she petted him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave it to you to answer that question about his aldmery rod.”

Farkas snorted with a shake of his head, looking away.

“Foolishness aside, I’d go see him. When I came down, he was arguing with Kodlak and Vilkas.”

“Aye.”

After putting on a proper shirt, Farkas made his way upstairs, but not before taking a quick glance towards the whelps’ quarters, Torvar was inside asleep, but the other whelp was nowhere to be seen. He was probably still upstairs, still caught in whatever argument Aela warned Farkas about. He reckoned that if the mage did something his brother saw as unhonorable he was in for an earful, yet, the bigger twin was worried. His brother was ill-tempered, but he was not one to turn to violence to small provocations, he was usually composed, calm and controlled. Could it be the blood was bothering him?

He shook his head, the man was probably on the mess hall. Once Farkas walked outside to the mess hall, the remaining companions were dining, though Vilkas was farther away from the main table discussing with Kodlak. It was obvious they were arguing, Vilkas had his posture tense, his hands clenched on the sides of his body, his lips pursed into a thin line and his brows knitted together in an expression of anger and apprehension, while Kodlak spoke in a low tone to the younger male, a calm expression as if he was trying to appease him. Yet, the New Blood was nowhere to be seen.

A quick glance was thrown at Farkas from his twin who noticed his presence as if pulled to him by that always present bond they shared as brothers, that nagging on their mind that one was close. Crossing his arms with furrowed brows, Farkas gave him and apologetic smile like they used to do when they were kids and either of them were being scolded by Kodlak or Skjor. He couldn’t help his brother or save him from whatever he was being called on about. With a sigh, Farkas walked away once his brother turned his attention back to Kodlak. He made his way to Skjor who was hunched over the table with no interest for food but clearly watching the old man and Vilkas.

“They have been at it for a while,” Skjor said to the unasked question that Farkas harbored when the bigger twin stopped by his side.

“How long?”

“Since they arrived, Vilkas is not glad with the New Blood,” Skjor said brushing his head. “Should have imagined that much, a mage among warriors, a mage working with your brother, _your_ brother of all. It was stupid to send the elf with Vilkas. What was Kodlak thinking?”

“Torvar got wounded.”

“His own stupidity, I have heard,” Skjor said with a sigh. “The elf, not so much. I believe he went head on against Hajvarr to draw him off your brother, and your brother did nothing while the bandit cornered him.”

“Impossible.”

“Ask the elf, he was yelling it just a few minutes ago when your brother said he was fitting for the Black Hand, not the Companions.”

Farkas flinched and looked at Kodlak and his brother. He flinched when he heard Skjor mumble: “Old friend, what are you thinking?”

“Maybe he thinks Lysander may be what Vilkas needs to get over his… fear of mages?”

“You call that fear?” Skjor asked eyeing the bigger twin from the side. Farkas brushed his head and sat down as Skjor faced forward to watch Kodlak and Vilkas. That wasn’t fear of mages, that was untapped hatred and resentment and Farkas would be lying if he said he didn’t believe that his brother might be causing problems for Lysander on porpuse.

Vilkas was now exasperate and in low tone, not to be heard, saying something to the harbinger and Skjor went on. “A mage will certainly be useful against the Silver Hand… He used magic, according to your brother – something that nearly threw Hajvarr off the ledge.”

“Well, Kodlak didn’t exactly forbid him of using magic,” Farkas tried to reason.

“Your brother did, however,” Skjor said. “And if the elf was smart, he would listen to a circle member. Yet, the elf constantly nags that it wasn’t magic. A gust of wind that can knock a man away is certainly magic.”

“Unless when it’s not,” Farkas added. “Where is the New Blood?”

“Kodlak _politely_ asked him to leave for a while, just until he can appease Vilkas.”

“You mean he kicked him out for the time being?” Farkas asked.

“Not kick out, he asked him to go take some air.”

“But why so? What did he do?”

“You’d have to ask your brother on that one, I only caught parts of what might have happened,” Skjor explained.

Farkas brushed his head again with a sigh as he looked towards his brother who, with a defeated look, finally accepted whatever the harbinger told him and walked away, not even sparing a glance at his brother. The bigger twin sighed once more shaking his head, there would be no use in going to check on his brother now, he’d only get an annoyed grunt from Vilkas, get kicked of the room and have the door closed on his face. Vilkas was upset, swimming in resentment and a wounded pride for being called off, that was obvious.

Farkas decided it was best to wait it out, so walked he over to Kodlak who tiredly rubbed his temples.

“Everything alright, harbinger?”

Slowly Kodlak looked towards Farkas, the man looked pale and exhausted, his silver eyes clouded by a mist of age and exhaustion. “Yes, everything is fine, my boy.”

“And with my brother?”

He nodded again. “Can you do me a favor, Lysander is outside, can you find him for me, I wish to speak with him. It’s his turn to get swatted over the head,” and, even though tiredly, the old man left go of this playful smile that made Farkas chuckle to himself and he nodded.

“Aye, harbinger.”

“Thank you, my boy.”

With quick steps Farkas left Jorrvaskr. The night was cold, the moons were visible on the sky and the borealis painted the night in tones of blue and green in an arrangement of beauty only Skyrim knew, painted with a spray of stars arranged in the skies above as a song in a lute. The air brought the scent of the tundra with itself, dirt, icy winds of High Hrothgar, the burning of firewood from the houses, aspen and pines, a slight scent of wolves nearby and the scent of dried out, dying tree coming from the Gildergreen. He felt his nostrils dilate with the scent, his wolf raveled and howled within him. How good it would be to feel the cold breeze on his fur, the clenching of his claws on the tundra grass and his fangs gnarling into a fresh kill.

It was a good night to hunt.

 He shook his head quickly in an attempt to shake away the thoughts of the hunt. He had made a promise to his brother and to Kodlak on giving up on the blood, he couldn’t just give in now. The three had agreed to it, he wanted a restful night, he wanted the Halls of Sovngarde. But, at times, he regretted his promise, he enjoyed the blood, the wolf, the freedom it brought, but he wanted to die a man, he wanted to sit in the Hall of Valor with the heroes of old.

Walking down to the Gildergreen, he found himself being drawn by the scent of fire and incense and an odd sweet scent he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. He walked over to the statue of Talos, to find someone sitting on the bench facing the small, makeshift shrine Heimskr had erected under the statue. The New Blood sat there, though he was wearing a leather hood that covered most of his head, Farkas knew it was him. He wore that dunmer styled armor he wore earlier, bent over with his elbows over his knees as his chin rested of his hands, his gaze on the shrine.

“New blood,” Farkas called.

The whelp diverged his eyes from the shrine and looked at Farkas, gold wide eyes stared at him and Farkas felt as if all matter of air had been taken from his body by that golden stare. Gold eyes… weren’t his eyes green? Yet, the sharpest, most beautiful gold eyes he ever saw were staring at him. He could only stand and stare, almost afraid to draw a breath, lest those fey golden eyes would vanish. Finally with a disgruntled look the elf sighed looking back to the shrine.

“Hail, companion. Are you here to argue with me over your brother or may I keep praying to Talos in peace?”

Clearing his throat Farkas walked over. “N-not really, Kodlak asked me to call you. You pray to Talos?”

“Yes.”

“But aren’t you…”

“A High Elf? I know,” Lysander interrupted him. “I worship Akatosh, but I also believe in Talos. Are you going to rant me out to the Empire?”

“No, I won’t,” Farkas assured and the elf nodded, looking up at him, placing his hand on his side as if it hurt. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” he answered. “I feel as stitched up as my thief armor, but other than that, just a wounded ego, a black eye, and a sense of utter shame for having Kodlak get mad enough at me to ask me to go take a walk as if I’m some short of short fused nord who needs to clear his ideas and get an attitude check…” He said with a sigh. Farkas frowned about the nord part.

“Well, last part is probably true, but I’m only half nord,” Lysander quickly added with a devious grin under his hood.

“Wait, you’re half Nord?”

“Aye, mate. I thought it was kind of obvious,” he said with a chuckle. “How many big human races you know? I mean Redguards are big, but not that big, only race left are the nords.”

“Well, you could be an Imperial, some are tall too.”

“With my sense of entitlement, ego and prejudicious ideals?” He asked. “Definitely nord.”

Farkas frowned and the elf laughed out loud. “Just kidding. The Imperials are the ones fueled with the utter sense of entitlement, the nords are just racist.”

“I-I’m not racist!” Farkas said with an offended huff and the elf laughed out.

“Just teasing you, silly wolf!” And he laughed it out, Farkas blushed as the notion that he was just being played finally sunk in. “Every single race on this world is racist. So I don’t really care much about races, if you’re a good man, you’re okay on my book, regardless if you’re growing scales or hairs.”

Farkas chuckled and sat down besides him. “Words to live by.”

“Indeed.”

“So… what happened between you and my brother?”

The elf made a sound that was something between a growl of annoyance and a snort, as if he was already counting with that question to be thrown at him at any moment. He leaned back and threw his hands to the air in defeat.

“I just can’t seem to please him. Everything I do irritates him! He doesn’t let me loot anything and annoys me over it. So I took these boots from a dead body, but he’s dead, he’s not going to need them, I on the other hand do.”

Farkas looked at the appointed boots, they were good boots, bounded in black leather, knee eye with leather straps, protective but flexible enough. “My brother doesn’t like people looting corpses…”

“You don’t say…” Lysander sneered with disdain, leaning forward and throwing a glance at the Companion with one sole lifted eyebrow. “I tried to stealthily kill an enemy so we wouldn’t get into trouble and he flipped at me, said I worked like a member of the Dark Brotherhood! He even made sure to tell that to Kodlak. That I was fitting to work for the Dark Brotherhood, like some heartless lowlife assassin!”

“We leave sneaking to the gutter rats,” Farkas said, as if he was reciting Kodlak’s usual speech.

A grunt of annoyance escaped Lysander’s throat and he looked away. “Gutter rats live longer, but attack bulls get stabbed in the back quicker.”

And he sighed. “Vilkas gave me a whole lecture about honor and so on, but then didn’t hesitate to beat a blind old bandit to near death, despite the fact the man had yelded already,” he placed his hand on his side once more, in pain. “Then, he cheap shot me because I pulled him of the man.”

“Cheap shot?”

“Punched me straight were I had been hurt, twice. Son of a…” he fell quiet remembering probably that Farkas and Vilkas shared the same mother, whoever she had been. He pulled his hand of his side and leaned back as if he was uncomfortable.

“My brother may have lost his temper,” Farkas started brushing his head as he attempted to find a reason to justify his brother’s actions. “He is very… fixed in the old ways of the Companions. You did things he saw as dishonorable, that’s why he reacted that way. This is not how we do things. We don’t loot the dead, we don’t sneak like rats, we don’t use magic.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” Farkas flinched surprised and looked with furrowed brows at Lysander who sighed. What did he meant by that?

“Why am I expecting _you_ to understand my point, any of you for a matter of fact? _Never limit yourself…_ ” He said, leaning back again and facing the sky, as if he was quoting someone else. “Never limit yourself, don’t stick to one form of battle, don’t stick to one thought, don’t stick to one god, to one daedra, to one course of action. Always have your mind open for possibility. Rather fighting with your hands, your magic, or sneaking your way through without harming others, _never limit yourself_. That’s how I live, that’s how I was taught to live, to survive.”

“There is no honor in magic, no honor in sneak…”

“What do you know about honor, wolf? You’re a bunch of hired mercenaries founded by a mass murderer who only knew how to swing axe and hunt outmatched mages…” He spouted out, resentment spitting out of his voice, his eyes a dangerous shade of flaming gold.

“Yet you joined us,” Farkas pointed out, only now realizing the irritation creeping through him with the elf’s accusation.

“My father was a Companion. He used to joke that you were all magic hating werewolves who ate baby elves!” He said laughing, but Farkas flinched. “But he also told me great things of the Companions, great feats of honor, of heroism, of compassion. He always said that if I wanted to learn how to fire a bow or how to wield a sword, there was no better men to teach me. Though he didn’t exactly entirely agree with them, he respected the Companions and what they _used_ to stand for.”

“What we _used_ to stand for?”

“Honor and justice,” Lysander mumbled. “Those were the Companions my father knew, the Companions he always told me about, not this lout. This was not what I was looking for. All I see is brooding and prejudice.”

“Your father was a Companion?”

“Yes, let’s not dwell on it,” he asked with disdain, and he got up. “I better not keep Kodlak waiting. Don’t want to get on the bad side of the only decent Companion in this joint.”

Farkas bit his lip as a sense of discomfort assaulted him. He wasn’t entirely sure why what the elf said bothered him, but it did, and it was like a little burn within him, a little pain, on his chest. “I guess I don’t count then…”

Finally realizing what he had said Lysander sighed and took his hand to his forehead, then he left them fall, wincing and taking one to his side.

“I’m sorry, big guy. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re a good man, especially for hearing my incessant rambling without punching me in the face, beat your brother on that one. So I’m sorry, you _are_ a good Companion, a good man. Don’t take to heart what I said, please. I’m irritated and in pain and may have lashed out at the wrong twin. I don’t want to get on your bad side either. I’d like to have at least one friend in here, for all its worth.”

A sigh escaped Farkas and he nodded as a sense of relief seemed to appease him. “Don’t worry… I won’t take it to heart. Let’s go inside, Tilma’s making apple cabbage stew.”

“Aaagh, Auriel’s scaley backside,” Lysander shivered. “I hate that! Ate whole bowls of it when I was a teen back in Morrowind.”

“You’ve been to Morrowind?” Farkas asked as the two made their way to the steps of Jorrvaskr.

“Morrowind, Elsweyr, everywhere! I thought I told you that already. Never been to Atmora or Akaviri though, nor as far as Summerset Isles or Valenwood. Maybe one day, when the Thalmor stop being a problem and the Dragon situation and the Civil War has been resolved around here.”

“Seems like you have seen a lot. I have never left Skyrim. You’re very lucky.”

“Aye, mate, so is the serpent. I have seen a lot and met many interesting people, learnt a lot also, but, on the hindsight, never had a real house past the tent on my backpack, or a real family… Just me and my dad running from city to city, from province to province,” he stopped at top of the stairs and looked down at the statue of Talos.

The sad expression the elf now harbored caused Farkas to bite his lower lip. What was he thinking? There was no way he could tell. Then suddenly he chuckled to himself. “Well, I did all the running, my father rode a horse. Selfish prick, said I had to be good at something, that something might as well be running, made me run for hours after his horse, one of those times it was through the Alik’r Desert.”

Farkas actually laughed at that.

“Know what, big guy,” he looked towards Farkas catching him off guard. “When I travel down to Valenwood and the Isles, how about you come with me? If we depart from Markath, I can show you Hammerfell, we can then head to Cyrodiil and make a stop on Valenwood before we embark a ship for the Isles. At the contrary of my father, I’ll gladly share a horse with you, or even buy you one if you don’t fancy holding onto another man’s breasts.”

Smiling brightly with a chuckle, Farkas nodded. The idea of seeing all of Tamriel pleased him. He was so caught up with the Companions, the blood and his brother, that he never did anything besides the life of a Companion. Not that he disliked it, not at all, but the sense of discovery and adventure seemed to rile him and his wolf up. Besides, as Companions, they could spread the former glory of the Companions across all of Tamriel.

“I’d like that.”

Lysander smiled, the sweetest smile Farkas ever saw, his eyes that caramelized tone of green again. “Good, then its settled.”

Frowning, Farkas leaned forward to stare straight at his eyes. The elf leaned back confused. “Do your eyes change color?”

“Huh… Ye, sometimes. Depends on the weather and lighting… Why?”

“They were gold, earlier, now they’re green again, but this goldish green. That’s so weird and so amazing at the same time.”

Lysander started chuckling. “Ooh. It’s really not that big of a deal. They used to turn brown when I was a kid. I have seen plenty Nords with that trait. Onmund, back at the college, his eyes are light blue, but I have seen them take the shades of purple and grey before when the weather was nasty. It’s really not that weird. It’s a lighting thing…”

And he fell quiet, placing a hand on Farkas cheek he spoke. “Yours however, they’re always this bright silver… Always. Like two full moons. It’s quite… disturbing, yet mesmerizing.”

Farkas felt himself blush as his body was drawn to that warm and soft hand placed on his cheek, even with bandages on the way. He bit his lips surprised, not entirely sure he knew what mesmerizing meant, or if it meant what he thought it did. If it meant what he thought it did, was the elf complimenting him? Flirting with him? Those goldish eyes stared intently at Farkas and the wolf could enjoy the scent of burning warm firewood in the snow, something sweet and spicy, like caramel or taffy.

Suddenly, blushing also, the elf broke contact and stepped away, strapping his idle hands on the belt around his waist. He looked away clearing his throat.

“Well, hum. Sorry about that, I-I… I’ll go see Kodlak now,” and he treaded away, leaving Farkas back, staring at the leather hood and shawl dancing in his trail.

Slowly, Farkas touched his cheek. _Mesmerizing_.

He shook his head and followed Lysander back into Jorrvaskr.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use a mod that makes my conjured atronachs darker than regular ones, makes me feel like they’re special that way. I also use them for target practice and I love them!  
> Moonlight tales allows you to change werewolf fur. Aela’s dark red/brown and I imagine Skjor would be silver. The twins are black.

** Morning Star **

**It was clear whatever Kodlak spoke with the new blood** would never be learned by the twins, but it was clear also that Skjor knew as well as Aela, as, after such, the New Blood started being sent in jobs alone. Maybe it was the decision of Kodlak to be that way, though that was not how the Companions did things, or maybe it was Lysander’s own choice. After that day he only received jobs from Aela or Skjor. In a way, Farkas was relieved with that, no more altercations between his brother and Lysander, but he really wished he could accompany the elf. He’d catch glimpses of him practicing in the yard during the day with his dwemer bow, but at night, the elf would always vanish.

Now, more than ever, Farkas was certain the elf had house in town, or somewhere else. But it seemed like fate was making it so that it was hard for Farkas to even talk with the elf anything more than a “Hail Companion” and “New Blood.” He was certain Lysander wasn’t avoiding him, though he did a really good job at completely darting Vilkas. If he didn’t knew better, it was like the elf had received some variant of courier training, for only they were so skilled at tracking people down. That night was different, however, and the elf ended up walking straight into another argument. It was clear things wouldn’t easily settle between Vilkas and the mage.

Farkas was hunched over his plate contemplating the cooked beef in front of him. The wolf inside reeled as if it was asking for raw meat other than the food presented to him, and it was. He hadn’t hunt for a couple of straight weeks now and the wolf was getting unsettled.  He needed to hunt, he needed to savor blood in his mouth, to rip the flesh of a stag’s quarters as he feasted on its sweet meat.

The wolf was probably expecting more from Farkas in the day of New Life than him getting drunk in the Banneerd Mare with the whelps and having to haul over Torvar back to Jorrvaskr before he made a mess of himself. He wondered still where had the New Blood gone during the day of New Life. He had caught a glimpse of him in town with a very unsettling dog chasing him and apparently he was having a full conversation with the dog too.

Vilkas, was seated next to Farkas, eating more out of need than actual hunger, reeling in a worst need for hunting than Farkas.  As his thoughts clouded over imagery of the hunt, the door from the chambers bellow opened and Farkas was invaded by sweet scent of taffy and caramel and fire among the aspen and pine forests up the north that he always attributed to Lysander.  He saw the elf walk upstairs accompanied by Aela.

“He has the staff,” Vilkas grumbled annoyed as he saw the elf and Farkas looked towards him. “Why did Kodlak give it back?”

The elf seemed armed for battle and ready to leave. On his back he held his gold dwarven bow and that hideous staff of the screaming faces. He wore a chainmail under a green tunic bound by a belt with a satchel and vials, leather pants under it and the black knee high leather strapped boots that was, to this day, reason of distaste to Vilkas. He wore a fur mantle around his neck with the hood lowered to show loosely tied red hair with stray bangs falling to the sides. Vilkas growled and Farkas was well aware other than the hood the elf had bought three days ago from Belethor, the rest of his entire attire had been looted. By his side was Aela she was speaking with him and Farkas watched as the elf brushed his chin and shook his head, which, clearly irritated her.

“It’s his, Kodlak wasn’t going to keep it forever,” Farkas said.

“That thing belongs to Sheogorath.”

“The Mad God, yes, I know,” Farkas said with a sigh poking his food. “You remind me every day.”

“Only because you seem infatuated with that Daedra worshiper.”

“He’s not a Daedra worshiper,” Farkas sighed looking up.

“How do you know? He’s a mage, he has a Daedra’s staff, he loots corpses, for all we know he spends his nights raising the dead.”

“How can you be so certain of all that?” Farkas asked.

“He’s a mage and an elf. He’s always away at night, at night necromancers like to play.”

“So do werewolves,” Farkas grumbled. “He’s also half nord,” Farkas pointed out. “Does that mean he should be a bigo… _bigoted_ and racist prick too?” Farkas asked not entirely sure if he said the word right, but he heard a dark elf once call the nords of Windhelm that. He just found them to be normal nords, despite one or another who was a racist prick, or bigoted as she called him.

Vilkas furrowed his brow and leaned over. “He’s a mage, you know the kind of mages we deal with. You know the mages who…”

“Vilkas,” Farkas started and watched his brother look aside, his hands clenched on his legs, like a hurt child desperately trying to repress his emotions. “You can’t possibly compare Lys to the mages who killed mom and dad. Those mages were… monsters. For Ysmir’s sake, brother, if Lys was like them, I think we would have known already.”

“Lys?... You _are_ infatuated with him,” Vilkas bit back resentful. “A mage.”

“Lys, yes, his name is big. Lys is easier to say than Lysander.”

“Lysander isn’t a hard name, you just gave him a pet name, idiot!”

“It would be a pet name if I called him Lysie, not Lys.”

“You considered that first, didn’t you?” Vilkas frowned and Farkas growled shaking his head. Maybe he did consider Lysie as a nickname for Lysander first, but only because it was easier, and it didn’t stick because it was a woiman’s name.

He also considered Lysa…

“I’m not infatuated with Lysander. He seems a nice guy. You can’t just say those things without knowing the elf. Mages can be good. See Farengar, for example,” Farkas said and he looked towards the elf.

“Mages are mages, and they’re all the same!”

“Aaah… Okay, New Blood.”

The elf turned around to face the Companion and smiled waving at Farkas, but only briefly, as his smile gave a turn and his hand closed the moment Vilkas threw a glare at him.

“Come over here,” Farkas called again. With a sigh, so did the elf. Farkas realized he carried a backpack to which the quiver and the staff were attached to. “Are you a daedra worshiper?”

Vilkas bit his lip with a flinch and the elf rolled his eyes, slouching his shoulders forward in utter annoyance. “No, I already told you, I only worship Akatosh.  Are you asking because of the staff?”

“You already been told to drop the staff,” Vilkas growled looking at the elf who rolled his eyes again, shaking his head. “We don’t take Daedric artifacts.”

“Tell that to the daedra to whom that heart Kodlak has belonged to,” he said.

Vilkas growled in warning. “Watch your tongue, witch-elf.”

“Look, one of Sheogorath’s minions asked my help to find the Mad Dog, so I did. Then helped _convince_ Sheogorath to return to his realm of Oblivion and he offered me the Wabbajack as a thank you for… making his vacation better… Do Daedra’s even have vacations? I digress. Just because I helped Sheogorath, doesn’t mean I worship him. I respect the man, he’s like my crazy uncle that I never knew I had.”

Farkas chuckled to that and Vilkas narrowed his eyes at him.

Lysander sighed. “Bal’s cold balls, then I better not even tell you about Barbas…”

“Who’s Barbas?”

“A dog… A daedra’s… daedric… dog. I may have screwed up with that one, woops. I killed a coven of vampires however,” and he grinned. “Just kidding, not, maybe, who knows.”

Vilkas frowned. Covering his mouth, Farkas found himself forced to chuckle at the elf’s reaction.

“I don’t care, keep that thing away. We don’t accept magic here.”

“I heard it before, and Kodlak said nothing against magic, as long as I used it honorably. I like this staff, it’s random and fun, it’s also hard as all if I need to crack someone jaw in.”

“There’s no honor in magic,” Vilkas barked at him getting up.

The elf looked down at him crossing his arms, and Farkas saw as his brother pursed his lips together in a thin line. Height was not a battle he could win against an High Elf. The elf would _always_ look down upon him. The elf was looking down on him, eyes glistening green in defiance, narrowed, brows lifted and the elf grinned.

“What do _you_ know about honor, wolf?” Lysander finally asked, one brow lifted. “I wasn’t the one who nearly beat a blind old man to death like some sort of rabid dog.”

Vilkas bit his lip and moved forward. Almost by instinct, Farkas got up and reached forward just in time to catch his brother’s wrist before he struck the elf across his face. His brother’s clenched fist mere inches away from the elf’s eyes.  Farkas looked at the elf and then his brother. Lysander didn’t even flinch, he knew he was going to get hit, he was provoking Vilkas on porpuse as if… As if he knew how unstable and temperamental his brother was. As if… as if he had dealt with werewolves before and knew exactly what to say to make one lose it. As if he wanted to prove him he had _no honor_.

“Enough!” Farkas growled, though he looked at the elf with the warning.

“You’ll… You’ll be biting that tongue… one of these days, witch-elf,” Vilkas his breathing harsh and labored, brewing with anger.

“Make me, dog.”

“I said enough!” Farkas said with threat on his voice once he felt his brother try to free his wrist. His eyes in warning on the elf, “Even if my brother is at fault, I _will_ hurt you, if you try to do anything against him!”

Lysander looked at Farkas, cold gold eyes and narrowed them. “Threat taken,” and he grinned, leaving and slamming the door behind him.

The whelps and the companions watched in silence, then looked back at Farkas, who still held his brother’s arm. Finally, Vilkas pulled free and stormed away. Sighing Farkas followed, completely sure he just ruined whatever mere friendship he might have been creating with the elf. He finally caught up with his brother in the hallway and grabbed his arm.

“The insolence of that… that… mage!” Vilkas growled, his eyes glistening in yellow of nothing but rage. “Do anything against _me?!_ ”

“He was just provoking you,” Farkas said, trying to appease his brother. “You poked him and he poked back. This has to stop, brother, your eyes, look at them.”

“This will stop when he’s OUT of here!” Vilkas yelled. “And you, defending him! Whose side you on?!”

“There is no side, Vilkas!” Farkas yelped. “There’s just two stubborn blocks poking each other until one bites! And I think he’s trying to make you bite first so that he has a reason to fry you up! The guy charred a giant, he can twice as easy do the same to you!”

“I’ll bite him alright! I shred right through his throat!” Vilkas said, spewing rage out of his lips.

“Good grief! Vilkas! Have you even listened to yourself? Look… I may not be a genius, but I see what he’s doing.”

“What is he?” Vilkas growled.

“He’s trying to make you lose it,” he answered. “That mage, he’s… different.”

“Yes, he’s a daedra…”

“No, nothing to do with daedras now… I think he’s trying to prove you that you have no honor to throw at him.”

“I do have honor, I do not turn to!!…”

“He wants you to lose it! He wants you to hurt him, to attack him unprepared, because he’s weaker than you and unskilled. To steep so low you’ll prove his point.”

“And what is it?! That magic is okay?”

“No,” Farkas sighed, trying tor eason with his brother. “What do you know about honor… that’s his point. What does any of us know about honor to keep throwing it at him as if we hold all the right?”

“That is a good question.”

Both Vilkas and Farkas fell silent and looked towards the Harbinger’s quarters, who apparently was listening to their talk. He smiled at them and walked. “You argued with Lysander again.”

“Y-yes… master,” Vilkas answered looking away in shame. “He provoked me.”

“I will _talk_ with him again. However, I find it remarkable that he reacts to you that way when to me, he’s nothing but respectful, even shy, sometimes,” Kodlak pointed brushing his beard. “Vilkas, Lysander will treat you, the way you treat him, be aware of that. You are yet to prove him that you are _worthy_ of his respect.”

“ _I_ have to prove _him_?!” Vilkas growled. “I’m a Circle member! He should be kissing the bare ground I step. He has to be the one to prove me…”

“He doesn’t have to prove you anything,” Kodlak said crossing his arms. “That’s just the point. He doesn’t have to prove any of us anything. If he becomes a full fledged companion or not, makes no difference to him. He’s here to learn how to fight, not to be part of the circle, he owes nothing to you. He believes he owes me something for saving his life and for secrets he does not wish to share, but it’s me exclusively.”

“Then why does he stay?” Vilkas growled.

Kodlak crossed his arms looking up and shrugged. “Many reasons, my boy, and no reasons at all. He keeps his secrets close. To learn how to fight, not to be a Companion, to find the past of his father, no to dwell on it,” and he shrugged again, Vilkas and Farkas frowned at how cryptic what Kodlak said was.

 “Who knows, maybe he wants to prove me something, show us something. Maybe it’s for his father, who apparently was a previous Companion and he wants to prove it to him. Or maybe just to pass time or for the money.”

“We never had High Elves before,” Vilkas pointed out looking away, avoiding Kodlak’s gaze.

“His father was nord,” Kodlak and Farkas said at the same time, and Kodlak smiled at the bigger twin.

“He told me,” Farkas said brushing his head with a blush as his brother glared at him.

“I see,” and Kodlak chuckled. “The boy’s a chatterbox… makes sense. I’m surprised he hasn’t told all there is to know of him yet. But his father, he was among our ranks. That he shared.”

“Someone we knew?” Vilkas spewed out.

“Fire-Bear, Fire-Bear, I heard that name before, but I can’t recall where,” Kodlak said brushing his beard once more. “I ask you, Vilkas, give the mage a break and a chance. That elf was raised differently from you boys, he learnt to survive differently, he learnt a different conception of honor, and he’s dead aware of his own limitations. That’s what makes him who he is.”

“So what? That excuses his… behavior? His attitude?!” Vilkas growled.

“Each man is his own man here, Vilkas. No, that certainly does not excuse him provoking you. But I hope it might enlighten you to why he behaves certain ways towards you,” and Kodlak walked over to Vilkas and placed his hands on his shoulders. “I like to think of you as a smart man, Vilkas. I know you are a smart man and you will understand in due time.”

“Yes, master,” Vilkas nodded and walked away to his room, leaving Farkas and Kodlak behind.

“I’m not his master,” Kodlak said with a chuckle, shaking his head and he coughed out into his hand looking at it for a while.  “They have more in common than they dare to admit.”

“Harbinger,” Farkas called. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Farkas,” and he smiled clenching his fist.

“You know something about Lysander, don’t you?” Farkas asked.

“The boy is a blabbermouth, if you warm up to him, he’ll tell you _everything_ you wish to know,” Kodlak said. “I haven’t warmed up enough to him though, he knows we have secrets and he keeps his accordingly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out in due time, I know you will, you are more forgiving than your brother.”

**Lysander stood in the middle of the tundra.** A couple of tundra spiders lay close by dead and he was busy recovering his arrows from them. Behind him a large frost atronauch with a darker shade of blue than a regular atronach. He pulled the arrow of the spider in front of him and looked back at the atronach. He was planning to train his aim with spells, but his fireballs ended up luring spiders which he had to deal until he was drained of magicka and forced to turn to his bow, but not before conjuring up one of his old friends, and who better to get a spider off of him than Frosty to bludgeon them?

“Well, I was planning to target practice ice spikes,” he said putting the arrows down his quiver and turning to the frost atronach who flinched. “Yes, you’re my practice dummy.”

He watched as the frost giant simply slouched its arms like an annoyed child and Lysander laughed. “Oh, come on Frosty, not the first time I use you as a target. It’ll be like old times, though back then, my father conjured you up, not me and he was the one throwing spells at you, not me.”

The Frost atronach nodded and stood waiting for him to start. Aiming spells was harder than aiming a bow. Though large area spells as the lightning chain, the fireball and even the ice storm didn’t exactly require much aiming skills to cast, only strength to withhold them, they were messy and brought destruction in their wake. He could easily harm an ally with those spells and he easily harmed himself also. He was weak towards spells, no magical resistance whatsoever so his owns spells damaged him. Having the blood of altmer already weakened his resistance towards magical attacks, being born under the apprentice twice that and only made the serpents glare on him stronger.

Blessed with strong magic, cursed to get nearly killed by it. He thought as he clenched his aching hands.

The ice spells did no damage to the frost atronach, but it aided him in gaining experience with aiming, despite the frostbite and the tingling. Once he felt the bond that held the atronach in this side dwindle, he pushed his spells away and waved at his frosty friend as the frost giant literally poofed out from that existence enveloped in purple flames. He started gathering his things: his bow, his arrows and his knapsack and Sheogorath’s staff that he had left against a rock.

Once he was done, he turned around and looked at the walls of Whiterun, he had to go to Jorrvaskr, recover his mage gear and leave for Winterhold. But currently he didn’t wish to face the Companions, not after his little quarrel with Vilkas that obviously displeased Farkas. He had told Kodlak and the Harbinger was alright with it, but he seemed to want someone to accompany him to Winterhold. He didn’t say who, which probably meant Lysander could pick the person. He was planning to invite Farkas to accompany him, but then Vilkas happened and he left Jorrvaskr before gathering his things.

Oh well, he had to return to Winterhold eventually, he couldn’t postpone his studies forever. Though, to be honest, it wasn’t like, other than Tolfdir, the other teachers were getting their knickers in a twist over his absence. They were so used to students disappearing and getting themselves killed they didn’t even bother sending rescue parties after them anymore. But he had gotten a letter from the Arch-Mage, Savos Aren. They had found something about the orb he and Tolfdir found under Saarthal and he wanted to know what that orb was as much as any other.

He was ready to leave back to the Hold when he heard it. First it was an aerie silence in the prairie, as if the animals sensed something around that wasn’t normal, then came the call, the howl. The howl echoed through the night and he froze, he knew instantly what they meant. Werewolves. Grabbing his knapsack and throwing it over his shoulder he rushed through the plains, making his way back to the farms. If it was a werewolf he was in for a bad ride. And it sounded close, deadly close to the town. Lowering himself through the prairie he tried to sneak as quickly as he could, until he saw it.

He was sneaking around the Battle-Born farm when he noticed it, by the walls up ahead. There was a small entrance carved on the walls, something was there. The first one to jump out and sneak out was a large silver werewolf who stood by the wall for a few minutes. Lysander kept himself hidden as much as he could by the farm and slowly reached for his knapsack pulling a small iron telescope he had built recently. Of course the thing wasn’t as good as his dwarven telescope, but the imperials had took that one, alongside his scoped bow, his father’s sword and decades of research on magic, dragons and Akatosh, werewolves and the daedras and aedras.

Hoping the scents of the farm would keep him hidden from the werewolves, he used the telescope to watch the werewolf. It was a big old son of a bitch, silver furred and scarred, that one had his fair share of opponents, but he only had one functional silver eye. Lysander frowned at that, he wasn’t acting as a beast either, he seemed to be waiting for something and the elf saw what it was. A smaller brown furred werewolf came to join him, smaller and leaner, obviously faster, most likely a female with gold eyes, or a small male. But if that was what he thought it was, that meant there were still werewolves in Whiterun.

Could it be? Could they be the…? No. He looked at the hole on the walls and bit his lip. His father had told him in the past that there was a passageway the Companions used to get in and out of Whiterun.

Was that it? Where the Companions _really_ werewolves?... His father had gotten wrong before, his father had lied before. It could all be just a coincidence.

Yes, like he was one to believe in coincidence. _It’s sheer coincidence that the day I was going to get my head chopped off a giant black dragon_ poofs _up to destroy the world and_ coincidently _save my backside. It’s a sheer coincidence that all the circle has silver eyes, that there are werewolves in Whiterun and that the Silver Hand seems to be targeting Jorrvaskr._  

Remaining hidden, he watched as the werewolves scouted away, obviously to hunt. The big silver one still gave one last glance back as if looking to make sure no one was watching. Once they were out of the way. Making sure they wouldn’t catch his scent, he slowly moved to the hole, jumping over rocks to get to that opening and looked inside. There was a high ledge and over it a cave entrance, a barrel and a few fallen crates around. It wasn’t particularly unnoticeable. The only thing stopping people from exploring that cave was probably the scent of wolf piss around it and the high ledge. Anyone with half common sense could sense an aerie feeling of danger around that area and get as far away from there as they could.

“Well, father always said I lacked sense,” Lysander said shrugging. “I’d hate to be the one proving him wrong.”

He walked in and looked up the ledge. Well, it certainly took werewolf legs to jump up there, no regular human could get there. Thankfully, he wasn’t neither. Silently he got on top of the barrel and tried to jump up, though it didn’t give him enough impulse to get up there. He saw however a cave entrance up there, probably leading straight into the heart of Whiterun. He jumped off the barrel and walked back. He was going to need some leverage for that one. Once he was back enough, he ran at the barrel, jumped straight on top of it, and pushing his left foot onto the wall next to the barrel he pushed himself up until he caught the ledge with his hands, quickly pulling himself over the ledge up.

Lysander got up quickly and brushed the dust of his tunic and looked at the cave. He furrowed his brow, twitching his nose in aggravation and the scent of wolves and blood. Crouching down he made his way inside, the cave was narrow, extending down into an intersection with a dead end and a path to the left. It wasn’t very long, so it probably didn’t go far. He placed down his knapsack and pulled an old leather bound journal, the only thing he was able to recover after his capture. In the first page, he had several maps, but took the one of the hold of Whiterun, he pointed the position of the entrance of the cave and started tracking down it, holding the map and the small coal stick he used to mark it. He walked until the intersection and looked to passage left. Slowly the elf calculated the area under the city that would give to. So far, the Skyforge and…

“…Jorrvaskr,” he mumbled, not overly surprised however. The elf kept making his way in, when he heard a growl. Shoving his journal down his knapsack, he stepped back prepared.

There were more werewolves in there, at least one more. He ran back into the intersection and hid into the shadows, hoping the werewolf wouldn’t find him. The beast walked into the intersection and he held his breath. It was a large brute of a black wolf, its snot into the air sniffing it, big enough to take a frost atronach head on and be victorious. The beast was large, very large, as big as a werebear. Suddenly, the wolf looked straight to where he stood and growled. Lysander flinched as realization punched him in the gut.

“Hircine’s hairy balls! I forgot you could see in the dark!”

Yet, the werewolf seemed positively surprised to find him there, confused even. Lysander got out of his hiding place, knowing very well he was cornered there if the beast decided to jump at him, so it was better to stand in the intersection. He tried to remember the word he had learnt in Saarthal. That one had saved his life more than once when running away from something he knew he couldn’t take on. The moment the beast showed sign to jump on him, he was going to _shout_ and give a run for it.

“You’re one big son of a bitch!” Lysander said slowly retreating, towards the cave entrance. To his surprise the werewolf simply stared at him, silver eyes locked on him as if the wolf didn’t know what to do, if it should attack him or let him go.

It would be a lie if he said those eyes weren’t minimally familiar to him, that that glare wasn’t known to him. He _knew_ werewolves and he knew the difference between a sheer beast of Hircine and a man at one with his wolf, he had seen it, he had seen it several times. That creature was evaluating him, it’s eyes, tracking from his face to his hands, as if it was analyzing if he was a threat or not. He knew that much.

“You’re not a simple wolf, are you?” Lysander started lifting his hands, trying to show the wolf he was no threat. “You understand me, don’t you?”

The werewolf tilted its head and stepped closer to him, leaning his head forward as if it was trying to sniff him. A bit at fear, Lysander reached his hand forward, his heart racing against his chest, his hand trembling. He was quite aware that could go terribly wrong. The wolf could bite him with enough strength to sever his hand. The wolf sniffed his hand and huffed, for his surprise, Lysander watched as the werewolf’s tail actually started wagging.

“I’m okay, see?” The wolf sniffed his hand shaking his nostrils and looked at him as if it was accenting. “I was just curious, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

The wolf looked back into the passageway and Lysander started slowly retreating. It was better not push his luck. Those eyes stared at him still with a hint of suspicion, and he met them, retreating. He knew that glare, he knew those beautiful silver eyes. They were _mesmerizing_.

“I know you, don’t I?” He asked, the wolf stopped wagging his tail and flinched, his glare on him.

He furrowed his brow. Big and black, ominous looking with the bright silver eyes. A very big black wolf, werewolf. “Is that you, Far…?!”

And the growl behind him made him go silent before he even called. He forgot about the other two. The black werewolf looked back down the path and so did Lysander, he saw the large silver werewolf stare at him from the entrance. He felt his heart fall down to his feet as he realized he was cornered. There was no way to run now and the silver werewolf marched in, his glare on the elf, snarling and growling, the wolf’s fangs visible.

The black werewolf looked towards Lysander as if it was torn and unaware of what to do. Finally, it seemed to take a decision and, for Lysander’s surprise – and relief – he steped in front of Lysander pushing his back behind him. He was protecting him. That more than ever convinced the elf of his suspicions. The silver werewolf jumped and back one, his large claws slapping at the bigger werewolf’s head, he growled and howled at the black one who hit his snot against the other and pushed him back. The two were arguing, their heads and snots being pointed at the intruder – Lysander – while they seemed to debate on what to do. He wasn’t just going to stand there like a sitting duck until the two wolves decided on what to do so.

 _Well_ , _dad always told me that if I was going down, the least I could do was go down yelling and kicking.So…_

“Huh… guys?” He started hoping by Aetherius and Akatosh’s greatness the serpent was having a good day. “Can I say something?”

The two werewolves stared at him quickly and he grinned. Conjuring all his knowledge. _Ice, flesh, statue_ … _Under Saarthal was… Slen._

“SLEN!” He shouted out at the two werewolves.

The two were caught by surprise by the breath of nothing but ice that was thrown at them. It encased them instantly, forzing around their limbs and arms and causing both beasts to fall to the ground frozen. The elf laughed surprised and quickly ran forward jumping over thew two werewolves as the ice now quickly melted breaking the two, confused, wolves free. Yet, Lysander did not wait, he ran down the cave towards the exit and jumped out the ledge, falling on his shoulder and rolling over himself. He popped up quickly and looked back at the entrance, the wolves howls and growls behind him and he darted.

He ran down the Battleborn farm towards the main road. There were guards patrolling the farm and they could hold back the werewolves for him. He saw the silver werewolf chasing after him, but he just kept running. If he could outrun a dragon and a horse, he could also outrun a werewolf. He _had_ outrun a werewolf before. Running was what he was good at, he always _ran_. Looking quickly back, he saw the werewolf still chasing him, though it was now heading to the stone paths above, around the walls, other than taking the main road. He realized why once he ran past a guard who simply asked “Dragons?”.

“Werewolves!” He yelled back and darted left once he saw the path to the stables. When he arrived at the carriage he stopped, gasping, the silver werewolf had stopped also, watching him carefully hidden by the walls, as if waiting. Lysander walked slowly towards the Khajiit who were now making camp and the werewolf turned around leaving.

Sighing relieved, Lysander ran up the path towards Ri’saad. He had to go talk with the companions, but first, he had things to trade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a mod that allows you to enter the Underforge, even if you're not in the companions. Cheats help. :P


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t easy to upset Skjor, he was one of the most controlled members of their pack, as in control of his wolf as Kodlak even, so seeing the large silver wolf in a fit was something Farkas wasn’t used to. He only became that way when he felt the pack was at danger, and it usually involved the Silver Blood or the Vigilantes of Stendarr. But now, the New Blood had seen them, and even though they were werewolves at the time, Farkas was certain that he had recognized them. Skjor rushed after the New Blood when he froze them and ran away, but to no avail, the elf had completely outrun the silver wolf, something that to Farkas was remarkable. A sprinting werewolf was faster than a horse, how in Oblivion did the elf outrun him?

 _Selfish prick, said I had to be good at something, that something might as well be running, made me run for hours after his horse._ Farkas remembered him sharing with him. He certainly wasn’t missing legs to run also.

Regardless he had thwarted the werewolf and once he got to the stables, the werewolves couldn’t push it any further. Now, irritated, Skjor was returning to his human form, his body convulsing as the fur retreated. Farkas followed his path and did the same; he felt his bones reshaping themselves, his skin pulling back as the fur subdued, his muscles contracting and readjusting themselves to normality, as if he was being forced to bend his body beyond what it was capable. He was left gasping in his knees, on the ground of the cave, alongside the older male. Skjor was saying something but he didn’t quite catch all of it.

“… found us?” Was all Fakas caught. “I said, how did the New Blood found the Underforge?”

“I don’t know,” Farkas answered. Well, the hunting was ruined. They timed out before they could catch anything, the distraction with the elf leading them to forget about blood in favor of protecting their secret.

Well, Skjor did that, Farkas was left torn unaware of what to do and got bit by Skjor for it. It felt as if the New Blood had recognized him. The elf was about to call for him when Skjor noticed him, and Farkas was certain he was about to ask if it was Farkas. Had he really recognized them? That meant they were in danger and something about the New Blood had to be done, but they couldn’t just kill him.

“We have to find that scrawny elf!” Skjor said as he walked back into the Underforge’s main chamber to gather his belongings, Farkas followed dizzily. “We need to wait for Aela to return and we’ll bar the entrance.”

“Why?” Farkas asked confused as he started slipping into his armor.

“Isn’t it obvious? Even if the elf didn’t recognize us he saw the Underforge and he saw _us_. We need to bar the entrance. For all we know that scrawny little witch may have already told the guards!”

“Can you imagine their surprise when they find out where the Underforge exits to? Centuries of secrecy, no one ever found out, and a scrawny curious little elf finds the entrance to the Underforge as if it was nothing! How did he jump up that ledge? I always knew that mage was beyond regular.”

“Maybe he used the boxes,” Farkas started biting his lower lip in worry. Skjor was right, they were in danger now.

“We need to bar the entrance of the Forge before that little bitch tells anyone,” Skjor growled, adjusting the rest of his armor and tying his hair back. “We need to find the whelp, we need to find out what he knows and make sure he stays quiet about it.”

Flinching Farkas stopped strapping his wolf armor and stared at Skjor. No, he couldn’t. “You can’t be suggesting killing the kid?!”

“No, but we can’t let him bat his tongue either!”

“W-wait, Skjor! He’s one of us! At least make sure of what he knows!”

“He’s not one of us, he’s a whelp, not even a full Companion. If he had the mishap of disappearing, we can just say he returned to the college.”

“Skjor, please!”

“And what if he knows what we are?!” Skjor asked. “Then what?”

“We have to tell Kodlak! You can’t do something like that! We have to tell Kodlak!”

“Kodlak is too blind with the idea of a cure and by the weight of age to take action in something like this,” Skjor remembered.

“But he’s still our harbinger! We need to tell him that the whelp found the Underforge before we do anything. How do you think he will react if he finds out you took matters into your own hands before consulting him?”

With a reluctant sigh Skjor nodded. “Aye, he would not forgive me. Very well, we’ll talk with Kodlak first, but the more we delay this the worse!”

Farkas felt his heartbeat calm down, realizing his own worry over the possibility of the whelp getting killed. He knew that if Skjor took action against the New Blood it wouldn’t be pretty, either a dagger in the ribs or fangs to the neck. But he also knew his _brother_ would be reluctant in displeasing Kodlak, especially now with the issues concerning the blood and the Silver Hand. They needed to be a full pack now more than ever.

They were done equipping when Aela returned, her figure nude and human, blood on her neck and lips and on her hands. She grinned victorious and glad of a hunt. She was unaware of what had transpired as she had left before them and did not bother to wait. The woman was very solitary and independent and other than when hunting down Silver Hand, she always avoided the company of the other wolves when hunting. Something about the hunting set her blood on fire and she preferred to avoid the males when like that.

“Where were you boys? I missed you. Did you get distracted chasing foxes?”

“The New Blood found the Underforge.”

“What?!” She yelped surprised as she started cleaning herself.

“Exactly, walked straight into Icebrain there and he did nothing.”

“What you wanted me to do?” Farkas grumbled. “He’s one of us.”

“He’s still not a full-fledged Companion and we do not know if he’ll ever be,” Skjor remembered.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Aela mumbled surprised, her eyes wide. Then, for their surprise she started chuckling shaking her head. “I told you that kid wasn’t your usual mage! Told you! Since the day J’Zargo told me he killed a dragon!”

“What do you mean by that?” Skjor asked. “He killed a dragon?”

“Aye, that’s what J’Zargo said. He used magic, but still killed it.”

“Ysgramor’s beard,” Skjor started. “We need to speak with Kodlak about this.”

“The cat may have lied,” Farkas remembered.

“Believe me, icebrain, _that_ khajiit wasn’t lying.”

They found Kodlak in his chambers resting once they went down. Vilkas, hearing the sound of the three, left his room and came to join them. The bigger twin was certain Vilkas had noticed something was wrong just by looking at his face and he growled briefly.

“I thought you promised you would abstain from the blood,” Vilkas started lowly to Farkas, as Skjor knocked on the Harbinger’s door.

“I needed to hunt.”

“You _needed_ to hunt?!” Vilkas growled. “At the cost of your own soul?!”

“Brother,” Farkas started and the smaller twin sighed brushing his forehead.

“What happened? Skjor?” And he looked towards the older companion.

“The Newblood found the Underforge.”

“That’s impossible!” Vilkas said as his eyes widened in surprise.

“Quite possible, brother, he walked straight into Farkas, who just stared at him like an idiot!” Skjor cursed.

“What you wanted me to do? Pat him over the head?”

“It would be something!” Both Skjor and Aela said at the same time.

Vilkas watched as his brother pouted out his lips and looked away disgruntled. The smaller twin shook his head and took way forward past the other, knocking at Kodlak’s door. He heard a grunt from inside followed by steps, the door was opened and a sleepy, tired Kodlak stared at them, in his sleeping garments. He narrowed his eyes and with a sigh motioned them to enter, as they did, he closed the door. Kodlak sat down by the table and looked up at them.

“What happened?”

“The Underforge was found,” Skjor explained.

The harbinger narrowed his eyes at his closest friend in disbelief. “Silver Hand?”

“The Newblood, we don’t know how. He walked straight into us.”

“Like this?” Kodlak asked.

“No, as wolves, I don’t think he knows,” Skjor said.

Kodlak brushed his chin in silence and looked at Farkas and Aela. Farkas bit his lip and looked away.

“He may… have suspected something,” Farkas said and both Skjor and Aela looked at him, Kodlak simply stared, pressing him to go on. “I think he was about to call me when Skjor caught up.”

He looked at Vilkas whom stared at him surprised as if he knew something they did not. He bit his lips and looked towards the harbinger who, on his side, looked towards Skjor.

“And where is he now?” Kodlak asked, a certain worry sparking on his eyes.

“He… outran us,” Skjor explained and Kodlak narrowed his eyes.

“Go get him, I wish to speak with him then.”

“What are you going to do, master?” Vilkas asked.

“I am not your master, Vilkas,” the harbinger countered tiredly. “I just want to see what he knows.”

“What if he goes call the Silver Hand on us, we need to do something about this!” Skjor said quickly.

“He won’t,” Kodlak reassured.

“How can you be so sure, harbinger?” Aela asked.

“He won’t,” was all Kodlak repeated. “He’s here for a reason, if he does something like this it will defeat the purpose of his presence here. So he won’t. Now, go look for him.”

They were opening the door when they saw the newblood walking down the steps to the quarters. Skjor growled for a second and once the newblood saw them he seemed to flinch, but did not say anything. His eyes were veiled by his fur hood and he seemed to have unloaded most of his gear somewhere. He turned to face them and walked down the hallway towards them who stood at the entry of Kodlak’s door.

“Kodlak wishes to speak with you, newblood,” Skjor said.

“I need to speak with him too,” Lysander retorted, he seemed weary and cautious, his gaze on the room inside.

“What do you want to talk with him about?” Vilkas was the one to ask, though he was sure of what it was already.

“It’s with Kodlak, not with you…” The newblood sneered, and Farkas saw as Vilkas narrowed his eyes.

“Come inside, he wants to speak with you,” Farkas interrupted finally before both Skjor or Vilkas decided to attack the elf.

As instructed he came in, the circle was reunited and the door behind him was closed. Farkas noticed that once he heard the click of the door he jumped on his feet wearily glancing over them at the door. If Farkas wasn’t wrong, he could swear the whelp was actually fearful right now, his clear hesitation and weariness was a sign of that, and the scent of spices and burning pines was more intense now, flaring in Farkas’s nostrils. Kodlak looked at the elf and sat down where the whelp had first found him.

“Is there anything wrong, lad?” Kodlak asked.

Taking a deep breath, with a quick glance over at the circle, the Newblood finally answered.

“There are werewolves in Whiterun,” he answered. Kodlak didn’t even flinch, though his eyebrows lifted slightly.

“There are werewolves in all of Tamriel, lad. It is a quite common curse, I am afraid,” Kodlak corrected him.

“No, there are actual werewolves in Whiterun, somewhere inside it,” he explained pointing to the ground and sighed. “I found an underground entrance to Whiterun, and it wasn’t the sewers, haven’t found the entrance to those yet…”

Skjor narrowed his eyes and the twins shifted their weight uncomfortably, but Kodlak and Aela remained unaffected.

“Go on,” Kodlak asked.

“I was training magic on the outskirts of Whiterun,” he explained than glanced over at Vilkas over his shoulder. “I know how _troubled_ Vilkas becomes of the meer mention of magic... So yes.”

Vilkas growled slightly only to be elbowed in the ribs by Aela. Farkas chuckled to himself to be glared at by his twin. Farkas cleared his throat and noticed the elf was smirking.

“Anyway, I heard a howl,” he continued. “I have ran away from enough werewolves here in Skyrim to be able to tell when it’s a werewolf and not a wolf. You people have an infestation of werewolves and vampires around here. I can’t go anywhere without one of the two trying to _hug_ me on the road! Bloody Black Marsh all over again! Werecrocadiles at every turn! Only dad isn’t around the fry them anymore!”

“Get to the point,” Skjor growled and Kodlak chuckled at the elf’s rambling.

“There’s werecrocadiles?!” Farkas asked surprised though and it was his turn to be elbowed in the ribs by his twin brother.

“Oh, yes, sorry, I tend to ramble!” The elf apologized brushing the nape of his neck. He seemed to be relaxing now.

“I have noticed,” Kodlak said, though he was smiling. “So you heard the howl?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t looking for them!” He started. “I was going to return to the stables. I knew Ri’Saad would be around town and the werewolves tend to stay away from the city. Except for the rambling lunatics…”

“And you walked straight into them?” Kodlak asked.

“Not entirely, I saw them exiting a cave by the walls, a small one first, female, brown,” he described. “I know it was dark but her shade of brown wasn’t hard to tell. It was by the Battleborn farm, so I decided to go investigate.”

“Instead of calling the guards?” Kodlak asked tilting his head slightly.

“My father always said I lacked sense, I’d hate to be the one proving him wrong,” he said with a shrug and a grin.

“What did you found?”

“A cave, straight into Whiterun, and one confused oversized black wolf and an old very pissy gray one,” he explained. Next to Vilkas, Skjor mumbled: _Pissy? Old?_ As if he was offended.

“By my calculations, the cave slithers under the Skyforge,” he continued on. “I couldn’t see the whole extent of it since… Well, the werewolves sort of caught me nosing around their cave and I had to run for the hills… walls. Well, Ri’Saad.”

“You outran a werewolf?” Kodlak asked now actually surprised.

“I run a lot,” he explained rubbing the nape of his neck once more.

“What is your assessment of the werewolves you saw?” Kodlak asked and Skjor stood ahead.

“Why are you asking him that? It’s clear we should do something about that cave,” Skjor started. Farkas and Vilkas both agreed. Yet, the whelp was yet to say anything about the identity of the werewolves.

Kodlak lifted his hand at the circle members and glanced at the whelp.

“They weren’t savage,” he answered shaking his head and both Aela and Skjor narrowed their eyes and furrowed their brows, glancing at him. “I have dealt with a werewolf before…”

“You have, and?” Kodlak asked.

“I would prefer to speak of this in private with you, harbinger,” he explained.

“And the werewolves?” Kodlak pressed on.

“They are not savages. The big one was confused by finding me there, and the gray one only attacked me because I had found their cave… Obviously the wolf piss didn’t deter me.”

Aela lifted one eyebrow and looked at Skjor who bit a lower lip trying to pass unnoticed. Farkas also brushed the nape of his neck only to be elbowed by his brother again.

“I see.”

“I think we need to find out _who_ the werewolves are and if they are people that may be dangerous. They didn’t seem to pose danger, but that cave is out in the open also, if I stepped into it, someone else less worried about who the werewolves are may find it also.”

“Who among the people of Whiterun do you imagine would be a werewolf?” Kodlak asked curious.

Lysander frowned and he looked around biting his lip. When his eyes fell on Farkas and he bit his lip, they instantly knew what his answer was, one he did not verbalize. “Beats me…”

“Skjor, Aela, Vilkas, Farkas.” Kodlak called and the four stood forward. “Can you please leave us alone?”

He four traded looks and with a nod they walked outside. But none of them were pleased. Kodlak instructed the Newblood to close the door behind them and he did. Once they were outside Skjor shook his head gave Aela a meaningful glance before storming off followed by her. Vilkas and Farkas were left in silence in the cross-section that gave to their chambers. Vilkas gave his brother a quick glance.

“He _knows_ it is us,” Vilkas spoke lowly.

“Yes. He recognized me,” Farkas admitted looking still at the door. “Do you think he’s going to admit that to Kodlak.”

“Maybe,” Vilkas admitted then he looked up at Farkas. “What do you reckon he meant when he said he had dealt with werewolves before?”

“How would I know?”

“Well, you are all friendly with him!” Vilkas bitterly accused him crossing his arms and Farkas frowned annoyed.

No he was not. He had barely had a chance to speak with the New Blood in the past weeks. He shook his head annoyed and patted his brother on the shoulder. “Brother, go to bed. It’s where I am going.”

“I can’t sleep knowing a daedra worshiping witch-elf is alone with our harbinger,” Vilkas answered and walked away.

“Vilkas!” Farkas called but sighed annoyed giving up as quickly as he tried.

He knew well of Vilkas stubbornness. Yet if Vilkas was planning to eavesdrop, Kodlak would know.

Decided on letting that go – Kodlak certainly knew what he was doing – Farkas returned to his room. After washing himself and changing to sleeping garmets, he threw himself into his bed. On the silence of the night, his sharp hearing, still alert from turning into a wolf just earlier, picked on the whispering of Kodlak and Lysander. For a few minutes, Farkas tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t shake off the elf’s warm voice nor his latent curiosity. What were the two talking about? Biting his lip and breathing slowly he started picking fragments of their conversation.

“The eyes… Of all things the eyes were what gave it away,” Kodlak spoke surprise in his voice. “And what are your thoughts on this?”

“What thoughts you wish me to have on it?” He heard Lysander question. “I have questions…”

“I know you do, many… This journal, though,” Kodlak continued. “But I also have questions.”

“I…”

“You’ll answer them when you are ready, lad, do not fret,” Kodlak said with his rumbling chuckle.

“Thank you, master,” Lysander answer.

“I am not your master,” Kodlak said with a chuckle.

“You get what I mean,” Lysander replied with a chuckle. Farkas could see that characteristic grin on his mind.

 “Newblood, you told me you were planning to head to Winterhold in the morning.”

 “Aye,” he answered.

“I’d like Farkas to accompany you,”

“There’s no need for that Harbinger, besides, I’m not even a full Companion yet, I’m still a whelp,” Lysander complained.

“But no whelp will be without his shield brother,” the harbinger retorted. “Besides, it would be good for him to see that other side of yours. Even if I don’t agree with the use of magic, I cannot vouch against it.”

He heard a grumble and sigh. “I don’t mind him accompanying me… but… What if there are dragons?”

“Oh, I am certain you can take them.”

“I’m not doubting on my ability to hold a lesser ward while I slash or shoot at a dragon, I’m just worried about the aftermath,” he heard Lysander ramble.

“I am certain Farkas can take it.”

“I don’t want them to know!”

“I am certain they won’t mind…”

“You aren’t listening!” He heard the elf yelp exasperate.

“There is a possibility. Go to bed lad, I’m certain everything well be just fine,” Kodlak chuckled.

He heard the sound of steps and the door opening. Farkas remained silent in bed, hearing the heavy slow steps of Kodlak as he went to bed. Farkas however remained thoughtful on his bad, his hand over his stomach as he stared at the ceiling.  What was the mage so afraid of? Was he afraid of facing a dragon? Or could it be he knowing they werewolves and afraid Farkas would turn into one to face a dragon?

That seemed rather silly, though.

Farkas woke up in the morning when his door was opened back loudly with an eager greeting. The spicy scent of pine trees burning and something sweet on the fire flared his nostrils and he instantly knew who was waking him up that early. He probably wasn’t asleep for that long also and the constant tossing and turning, the howling of the blood, made his sleep everything but restful. Yet the man at the door seemed fully rested and ready for battle.

“Wakey, wakey, big guy!”

Uninvited the elf barged into his room as Farkas sat on the bed with a raised eyebrow. The elf had his hood down but it wasn’t the fur one he wore. He was wearing a different set of armour that day. It was leather beige, mage styled armour, with several sashes and heavily embroided around the back and ends. He could see what seemed like a chainmail under it, with dark brown pants and the black knee-high strapped boots that were to this day reason of argument between the elf and Vilkas. The hood and mantle he wore was of thick leather, but the end was also finely decorated.

“Nice armour,” Farkas pointed out. Seemed as expensive as it seemed light.

“Spent all night finishing it,” he explained with a grin, clearly proud with himself.

“You’re a blacksmith?” Farkas asked surprised.

“Gods no, couldn’t sow my own socks… Mostly because I don’t have any!” He said laughing. “No, I bought it from Ri’Saad a few months back, but got damaged after my run through Saarthal, so I only had time now to fix it.”

“It looks… nice,” Farkas continued on. It did look nice. Fit the elf’s lean build. As he looked at the elf’s face he realized he had changed his hairstyle, wearing it on a loose knot with wild bangs falling to frame those sharp green eyes. He realized the elf looked tired, with bags under his green, golden tinted eyes, and was wearing warpaint. “Are you using warpaint?”

“Aye…”

“You know what warpaint means, don’t you?” Farkas asked and the elf laughed.

“Well, depends on the context, in that,” and he grinned. “According to a random friend of mine, in some places, men wear makeup to let onlookers know they up for it. And before you ask, no, I am not up for it.”

“Up for what?” And to that the whelp burst into a laugh.

“Oh Farkas, I love you!” And his grin widened when Farkas tilted his head even more confused. “Kodlak told me you were accompanying me to Winterhold, silly wolf. So here I am to wake you up. We have a long day to get to Winterhold, and I need to stop by Windhelm first.”

Though he already knew that. He got up and the whelp sat on his bar, eyeing the room curious while waiting for him to get ready. Farkas washed his face on the basin and then looked up at the elf. “Are you going to wait here?”

“Aye, mate,” he answered. “You have a bar on your room! This is kind off awesome,” and he knocked on the bar with a grin.

“Huh… aye,” Farkas nodded with his brows pinched and returned to changed his clothes. As he undressed he realized the elf had his gaze pressed on his back. He stopped and looked back at the elf.

“What?”

“You’re staring,” Farkas explained a bit embarrassed.

“I am staring?” The elf asked and chuckled looking away. “Sorry about that. Just, like I said before, you are very handsome when that grime and dirt is off.”

Once more Farkas frowned confused unaware if he should be offended or if he should feel complimented. He slid into his armour and smeared the black warpaint around his eyes. “I am going to talk with Kodlak.” He reckoned it would be strange if he just accepted what the whelp said without questioning it.

“Aww, don’t trust me, mate?”

“I don’t mind accompanying you,” Farkas quickly answered and walked out of the room, the elf followed behind. “But I still need to speak with Kodlak.”

“Oh, of course, just… poking you,” the elf retorted with a quick gentle smile that for a second froze Farkas in place.

So besides the grin was that gentle smile, it just didn’t appear often, always hidden behind a playful grin. “Huh… yes.”

“Farkas,” someone called him and he saw the elf grumble something, taking his hand to his face.

Farkas saw Vilkas coming down to their room, already fully geared, probably coming from morning practice. He frowned at the elf the moment he spotted him and looked up at his bigger twin. Farkas could see the irritation and disdain on his brother’s face as he walked over to Farkas. He was clearly annoyed with the fact that Farkas was in the company of the elf so early in the morning, especially when he wore an armour that practically yelled: Expensive sneaky mage high-elf who’s better than you standing right here.

“Morning, brother,” Farkas greeted.

“What are you doing with the elf so early in the morning?” Vilkas asked, not bothering to greet him back and Farkas sighed.

“He came to wake me up,” Farkas explained crossing his arms. He almost wanted to ask his brother not to start.

“So you and the elf are familiar enough that he would barge into your chambers to wake you up?” Vilkas asked with spite in his voice.

“No, Vilkas,” and Farkas pinched the bridge of his nose. “He wishes me to accompany him to Winterhold.”

“You’re not going to Winterhold,” Vilkas stated frowning with no regard to his brother’s opinion.

“Brother,” Farkas started.

“Don’t _brother_ me! You’re not going, Farkas!” Vilkas growled looking at the elf. “You’re not going to Winterhold with the Witch-elf, especially not after what happened.”

Pushing Farkas aside, Vilkas stormed to the whelp. “What do you want from my brother, witch-elf?”

“The witch-elf has a name, it’s Lysander,” he answered crossing his arms. “And what? Your brother not grown enough to make his own decisions that you need to barge in making them for him?”

“My brother may be an idiot, but I am not, I am not letting you take advantage of him for whatever nefarious plot you may have in mind,” Vilkas continued pushing the elf against the wall. Farkas groaned annoyed at being called an idiot, but he was used to it.

“Don’t call him an idiot!” The elf scolded Vilkas instead, his eyes narrowing. “That’s your brother! And it was not my choice, Kodlak ordered it.”he

Then he grinned. “Besides, my only nefarious plot is getting in your brothers pants!”

Farkas flinched blushing wildly and while the elf’s grin widened, Vilkas turned deathly pale, his eyes wide in horror. However, the sudden shock was not enough to stop Vilkas, as the elf had achieved to royally irritate his twin. Before any of them could react, Vilkas rushed forward, and grabbing the elf by the chest, threw him against the wall. The elf’s bow and quive rattled against the wall, as Vilkas shoved his fist against the man’s stomach, but before the man could bend down, he shoved his forearm against his neck, pressing the man against the wall by the neck. The elf lifted his head, looking down on Vilkas, as the man held him against the wall, the free hand clenched in a fist, ready to strike.

“Don’t you fuck with me, witch-elf!” Vilkas warned. “I will fucking end you!”

“It was a joke! Arse!  Something you clearly don’t know nothing about,” the elf sneered, struggling against his hold. “And if your brother does want me in his pants, you have nothing to do with it! It’s not your choice!”

“It is my business! He is my brother!”

“Yes, your brother!” The elf yelled at him. “Not your pet dog you can order around! Now let go of me you arse, unless you want to take this to Kodlak!”

“Don’t threaten me with Kodlak, liar,” Vilkas growled. “You will not fool me!”

Farkas walked over to his brother and tried to pry him off the elf, already fed up with the whole situation, when he heard footsteps.

“Is there something wrong, Vilkas, Lysander?” Kodlak’s baritone voice broke through the hallway and the three looked over.

Their harbinger stood on the hallways staring at the three, his arms crossed, on one hand he held a letter. He said nothing and only waited. Startled, Vilkas left go of the elf stepping away as if he had just been burned, ashamed he lowered his gaze to the ground, while the elf left himself slide down the wall, eyeing Vilkas with resentment. Kodlak frowned and pointed one hand at them.

“Once again, I ask, what’s going on?”

Vilkas was going to apologize but was interrupted by the elf.

“Vilkas there was teaching me the neck lock, so that I can use it to intimidate people on the hired muscle job,” surprised, Farkas stared at the elf has he spoke those words. He got up brushing his neck and smiled at Kodlak, though Farkas could see the burning anger and resentment dancing on his eyes, that now, under the light of the torches were gold.

“Really now?” Kodlak asked and the elf nodded. “Did you get it right?”

“Let me check…” And he got up walking over to Vilkas. Before Vilkas could defend himself, he was shoved against the wall with incredible ease, his neck pressed against it, held by the elf’s forearm. “So, it’s like this, right Vilkas?” And he grinned. Vilkas narrowed his eyes, biting his lip and breathing slowly to stop himself from countering the assault.

“Aye,” he answered and the elf left go of him. Vilkas brushed his neck and both him and the elf looked at Kodlak with a disgruntled grin.

“I see,” Kodlak said lifting an eyebrow. “Good to see you two are getting _along_.”

Fakas sighed and smacked his forehead. It was clear Kodlak hadn’t fall for their attempt to hide their petty display of animosity, and he wasn’t overly impressed by it. Instead, like a father used to watching his children fight, he looked at Farkas ignoring the other tow.

“I wish to speak with you Farkas,” Kodlak explained and Vilkas behind him flinched. “I want you to accompany Lysander to Winterhold.”

“Mas… Harbinger,” Vilkas started behind Farkas. “Why do you want my brother to accompany the mage?”

Ignoring Vilkas, Kodlak continued on. “I have a letter for Urag gro-Shub, I wish it to be delivered, and since Lysander keeps getting hugged by Vampires and Werewolves on the way there…”

Farkas snickered when the elf behind him grumbled. “That was not what I meant…”

“I wish you to access Lysander’s honor as a warrior and a mage,” Kodlak asked.

“Aye, Harbinger,” Farkas answered.

“Does it have to be my brother, Harbinger?” Vilkas asked.

“Would you prefer to go, Vilkas?”

“No!” Both Vilkas and Lysander said and they traded glances.

“Good to see you agree on something. I believe you are leaving now?” And he eyed Lysander.

“Aye, Harbinger,” Lysander answered.

“Good, when will you be returning.”

“Soon I hope, as soon as we solve things around Winterhold,” and Lysander shrugged.

“Good, Farkas, if you desire to stay and assist him, you may,” Kodlak added and nodded. “You two can go now. I’d like to speak with you though, Vilkas.”

Lysander nodded and walked away, and Farkas followed, but Vilkas held his arm, his eyes cast to the ground as Farkas looked at him brother.

“Be careful around those mages,” and Vilkas glanced up worriedly. “I mean it. I’ll throw the entirety of the college to the sea if something happens to you.

“Don’t worry brother, I’ll be alright.”

And Farkas pressed his knuckle against his brother’s chest before chasing after the elf who waited for him by the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates. I'm in and out of several projects so I take a while to update.
> 
> References to mods:  
> Legendary Cities - TES Arena  
> 3dnp - Interesting NPCs Mods

Farkas came to find Lysander waiting for him outside the city walls, by the Khajiit camp. He was talking with the khajiit, Ri’Saad over something. Quickly the elf spotted Farkas and motioned Ri’Saad a goodbye, before walking away to meet the companion. As he approached a grin crossed his lips and he crossed his hands behind his head, holding on his hands a bag, despite wearing a knapsack on his back and some pouches.

“Hail Companion.”

“Farkas,” Farkas corrected and elf smiled.

They headed towards the stables where Farkas prepared his horse for them to depart. In silence, Lysander watched Farkas work, who, once more, felt the whelp’s stare on him, focused and silent. The companion couldn’t help but feel self-aware, with the elf’s attentive stare on him, and felt his face flushing. He tried to ignore it, focusing on saddling his horse.

“Ready to go?” Farkas finally asked as he pulled his now saddled horse out of the stables.

“Aye.”

“Where’s your horse?” Farkas asked looking around the stables.

“I don’t own one,” he explained.

With a frown Farkas crossed his arms. “Then how are you planning to head to Winterhold?”

“When I can afford it, by carriage,” he explained, hands crossed behind his head. “When I can’t by foot. Not the first time I go from Winterhold to Whiterun and vice-versa by foot.”

“You just, walk?” Farkas exclaimed.

“I run,” he elaborated his grin widening. “I think I already said I run a lot. Everywhere, I just run. I pick my journal, open up my map, get myself sorted out on location and path and just go!”

“It seems exhausting and dangerous.”

“Aye, sometimes,” and Lysander chuckled, a low-pitched sound, subtle and calm that warmed Fakas’ loins. “Can’t deny I have ran into a bear’s face every now and then.”

To that Farkas laughed a rumbling full laugh to which the New Blood only smiled in answer, clearly pleased he made the companion laugh. He walked past Farkas and turned around to look at him, walking back nonetheless.

“I need to make a quick stop at River Watch,” he asked. “A friend of mine… he’s… bundled up on River Watch now that… Hadvar and his merry bunch are gone.”

“I’ll make you company,” Farkas claimed with a gentle smile.

He noticed the way the elf flinched and looked down, biting his lower lip flushing, clearly not expecting that. He brushed the nape of his neck and left his hands fall to his side before looking back up at Farkas. Those sharp green eyes curious and thoughtful, always enthralling all of Farkas’ attention.

“Alright then, let’s go. Let’s see if your horse can keep up with me,” Lysander suggested with a grin.

Farkas had a brief idea of how quick Lysander could be. He had outrun a werewolf the night prior so it didn’t seem to Farkas like the elf couldn’t give the horses of Skyrim a run for their septims. Yet he was still to see it first hand and he did. He wanted to see how quick the elf could be, he wanted to see the value of the New Blood. Farkas was aware speed alone did not make a companion, but it would give him some value in the Circle’s eyes and maybe even Vilkas and his brother would be more open minded in accepting the elf.

And Farkas wanted the elf around. He wanted to know more about him, about who he was and what he was capable of, he wanted to be friends with that bright spirited high elf, half nord, who so easily, so freely made him smile.

Getting on top of his horse, Farkas followed the elf as he ran off. He wasn’t kidding, the elf was nearly as fast as a horse, and he certainly had legs for it. Farkas never had the pleasure to see the elf’s nude figure, but he could see the muscles on those legs. Those legs lasted forever, and ran with speed and pleasure. The two reached the bridge tied up, though Lysander outrun the horse up towards River Watch, Farkas closely behind.

They reached the deserted cave entrance, and the elf hunched over his thighs gasping before stretching himself.

“See? Told you I could run!” The elf pointed out stretching, clearly ready for another go.

“Indeed you can, but you’re going to dry yourself out if you have to run the whole way to Winterhold.”

“I can take it,” he said with a smile.

“What do you need from here? It’s been a while since you and my brother cleaned through here,” Farkas pointed out looking at the barrels outside and camp battered by the elements. He picked an empty bottle of wine and looked at it before tossing it aside.

“A friend, I come to visit a… friend,” he explained. “Wait here, please.”

And that said, before Farkas could say anything or question any further, the elf walked into the cave. Farkas watched, silent, but curiosity gnawed at him, and, ignoring the elf’s request, he followed after. He found the elf making way through the main cave system. He realized there were no rotting bodies in the cave, as if someone had had the work to clean them out. So either new bandits had moved in or someone else. Maybe his _friend_?

“Ulfr, you in here?” He heard the elf call.

Farkas stepped slowly behind Lysander and stopped causing the elf to look back and glower at him. “Farkas, shite, wait outside!”

“Who are you calling?”

“Who’s there?” Came suddenly the answer.

“It’s me Ulfr, Lys,” he answered quickly.

For Farkas surprise, a decreptic old man walked down the path uneasily, holding a short sword wearily, blindly feeling his way until he was close to where Lysander spoke. Blind eyes focused nowhere as the man, in brigand’s armor, waited.

“And, I was wondering where you were,” he started, sounding relieved. “There’s someone with you?”

“Aye, this is… Ron,” Lysander lied looking over his shoulder at Farkas. “He’s aiding me.”

“So you have spoken with Hadvar? Any news of him?”

“None, whoever those people where, they spooked your nephew away. I’m sorry friend,” Lysander spoke. “I brought you some supplies you might need. I’ll be away for a while. Got some things to do up in Winterhold.”

“Aah! Stealing for the robes?”

“Aye,” Lysander lied again as the blind man made his way to a table were a blank book stood. Lysander carefully closed the book and pushed it aside while he set down the bag he was carrying. “There’s food, water, meat and mead to last you a couple of weeks. You’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“A friend of mine, a man, a… healer, he’ll come here once a week to check on you. Old man, husky sultry voice, you won’t miss him.”

“Aah, when will you be back?”

The blind man felt for his chair and pulled it sitting down. With his hands, he started feeling for what Lysander had brought. Farkas watched in a mixture of confusion and shock. The blind bandit Lysander accused Vilkas of beating, was that him? Why was Lysander helping a bandit? He watched as the elf sat on the table, talking calmly with the old man. The old man smiled and nodded at Lysander who then jumped of the table, stealing an apple and biting it.

“Stay out of trouble Ulfr, I’ll be back soon.”

“And your friend?” Ulfr asked though he wasn’t looking at Farkas.

“Don?” Lysander asked getting the name right.

“Ron,” Farkas corrected him and the elf flinched.

“Aye, that. He’s accompanying me.”

“I see,” Ulfr said, though it wasn’t a literal thing.

“Alright, I just wanted to make sure you were left comfortable while I was away.”

“I’ll be missing our conversations,” Ulfr complained with a laugh.

“It’s more like a monologue, I do all the talking,” Lysander pointed out.

“I don’t mind listening to you; at least someone speaks with me. Last month, not even Hadvar talked with me, he might have been mad at me for something.”

“I don’t think he was,” Lysander countered, his smile dying. “Don’t worry Ulfr, I’ll find you a better place to live than this damp old cave.”

The old man chuckled and nodded. After a while, they finally left the old blind bandit supplied. Farkas said nothing, still taken aback by all. Lysander stopped by Farkas’s horse and petted the horse’s side waiting for Farkas. The nord stopped by Lysander and with a deep sigh brushed his arm. Lysander’s sweet scent flared his nostrils and the elf avoided his eyes.

“That was one of Hadvar Iron-Hand’s men,” he started grabbing the reins of his horse.

“His uncle to be more precise.”

“You went to take food and supplies to a bandit.”

“Aye,” Lysander admitted, glare fixated on the ground.

“An old blind bandit,” Farka pointed out.

With a sigh Lysander lifted his head and looked at the Companion. “Yes.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Since the day after me and Vilkas cleaned through the cave and killed his nephew.”

“Why?”

With a shrug, he started walking. Farkas jumped up his horse, adjusting himself on the saddle and he slowly trottled after Lysander. Not removing his eyes from the elf’s back until he finally answered, they reached the first bridge and turned up north, crossing the second and heading towards the path to Windhelm. The day was chilly again and it appeared it would become colder as they headed north. In silence, the two continued until Farkas tried again.

“Why didn’t you kill that man?”

“There’s nothing to gain from killing an old blind man,” Lysander answered.

The truth of his words momentarily struck Farkas. Here was a man who would loot the dead, yet would not kill an old blind bandit who tried to get him and his brother killed. It was almost, countering itself in a way that confused Farkas, but at the same time was both honorable and strange.

“So you left him alive to just wonder around?”

“That’s why I bring him food and what he needs.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t live with it. After I stopped Vilkas from killing him, something kept nagging me through the night,” he explained.

“What was nagging you?” Farkas asked.

Lysander stopped and turned towards the horse, looking up at Farkas. “Are you always that inquisitive?”

“Inquisi… what?”

“Curious,” Lysander explained, crossing hi arms, his eyes narrowed in a serious expression turning into a brief short smile. “In my mind there was the old blind man, alone, in a cave full of corpses, unaware someone had killed his nephew and every single one of his men and he was there, alone, just waiting for death by starvation or some other bandit or vampire who took the cave and it burned me inside. I just saw him calling for someone anyone with no answer, only to finally wander around looking for someone and then, suddenly, tripping over something. And he would reach out, he would reach out and feel a face. At first he might think it to be sleeping, only to then realize it wasn’t breathing. Dead, and that wasn’t the only one. He’d find more, one after the other, piled up, until he found his own nephew at the top.”

“And you couldn’t live with that,” Farkas understood.

“No, I couldn’t. I know how it feels to be left surrounded by nothing but corpses,” he grumbled looking away briefly. “So I went back the next day. He did run into the corpses. He reacted to me, thought I was going to kill him. I saw him cowering to a corner. So I walked up and reassured him I was one of his, that I was the guy that pulled the man, Vilkas, off of him, that I was a friend. I came every afternoon before returning to Jorrvaskr. I cleaned out the corpses and left the lower levels habitable for him.”

“And what about Hadvar?” Farkas asked, watching the elf’s back.

“I said Hadvar had escaped, jumped off the top before the men caught him but that I didn’t know of him,” and he sighed. “I don’t think he believes me on that, but he doesn’t say it.”

Farkas brushed his arm and looked up. He wanted to say to the New Blood what he had done was honorable and kind, but it felt shallow to say it, as if the whelp didn’t want to hear such a thing, as he continued walking, back turned to Farkas. Nonetheless, Farkas did find it commendable. With an half smile Farkas made the horse catch up with him. There was light in that elf, kindness and honor, even if it was difficult to see. The Companion stopped the horse ahead of the whelp, blocking his path and Lysander looked up at him. Before he could say anything, Farkas extended his hand at him.

“I can run… Companion,” he said with a sigh.

“It’s quicker this way, and I already asked you to call me Farkas, just Farkas.”

With a long sigh the high elf laughed and took the hand. Farkas realized Lysander, despite his size was a light man, a man Farkas could easily pick up with both his hands. Shaking his head to disperse the thoughts of holding that waist between his fingers, Farkas pulled the man to the saddle, who sat and adjusted himself perfectly behind Farkas. Lysander was only a head taller than Farkas, he realized, though slimmer than him and Farkas had a feeling that if he leaned back, he would fit perfectly under the man’s neck. Flushing red he brushed the thoughts away once more, but was a little disappointed to realize the elf grabbed the saddle instead of wrapping his arms around his waist. He shouldn’t feel disappointed, yet he did.

The ride towards Windhelm was a silent one. They caught the fall of light snow when they reached Nightgate Inn, a small town was being rebuilt around the Inn, but, for the most part, it was a silent place. They stopped to let the horse drink in the lake, Farkas went to the Inn to hear news on the streets, and the elf remained outside. The place had the usual clientele, Fultheim was at the bar drinking, the elf Canner was warming herself by the hearth, Hadring was tending the bar as usual. Farkas always stopped there on his way to Windhelm and was surprised to find there two people he did not know, a young nord man sweeping the floor, and an Imperial dressed in draugr armor he probably stole from some dungeon somewhere. Farkas paid them no heed.

“Any news on the road to Windhelm?” He asked.

“Evening, Companion,” Hadring greeted. “Heading to Windhelm, are we? There’s been some encounters between Stormcloak rebels and Imperial Legion soldiers on the way. You steer away from them there won’t be any problems, I am sure.”

“We don’t care about politics,” Farkas mumbled in answer. “Anything else on the way?”

“A traveler warned me he encountered a Draman near Yorgrim’s Overlook, I’d be careful.”

“A draman?”

“Aye, he said he had the body of a human, but was covered in scales and had wings and a dragon’s head. Half human, half dragon,” Hadrin explained. “Just rumors though. He probably had a little bit too much ale, and confused a draugr with a bat.”

“Probably, what do you have for sale?”

“What do you need?”

“Supplies for the road. I’m heading to Winterhold, but will be stopping at Windhelm.”

After storing up on supplies, Farkas left the Inn, to find Lysander throwing rocks at the lake, while he waited. Once he spotted Farkas he stopped and walked over to him, looking up at the skies wearily.

“What’s wrong?” Farkas asked.

“I saw a dragon, thankfully it didn’t spot me, but it flew towards the sides of Winterhold.”

“A dragon?”

“Aye, a dragon,” he explained.

“Don’t be silly,” Farkas said with a chuckle. “I’ll only believe that when I see one myself.”

The elf scoffed and rolled his eyes crossing his arms over his chest, brows pronounced. “Suit yourself, but don’t complain when it tries to bite your nob off.”

“My what off?” Farkas asked lifting and eyebrow.

When the elf started snickering Farkas frowned. Well, that elf certainly had quite the interesting accent and terms. Farkas wondered if that accent was from High Rock or if it was from somewhere else. There was a certain tone to his speech that reminded Farkas of the Redguards, but there were other touches here and there that seemed to come from elsewhere, maybe eve Elsweir. That puzzled the companion, nonetheless, Lysander’s voice and accent was pleasant on the ears.

“Shall we go?” Lysander asked still chuckling.

Farkas nodded.

Once again, the elf adjusted himself behind Farkas on the saddle, but this time Farkas picked his scent, sending a fire through his loins and making him flush. There was something lovely about that elf’s scent, how he always smelled clean and fresh, and apparently about the type of person he was. He was carefree and playful, always looking for a chance to joke, nonetheless the man was clearly intelligent, he had a broad vocabulary and a unique accent, though his accent almost appeared like a mixture of several accent’s from Tamriel, though Farkas barely knew any accents other than his own and the khajiit’s. But there was a kind piece to the elf, the part that pitied and sought to help an old blind man, despite his criminal ways.

He wanted to learn more about the elf. That tall big elf that was as violent as a man, as light as a woman, as witty as a drunk, as smart as a mage and as playful as a child.


	10. Chapter 10

**2 nd Sun’s Down – Feast of the Dead**

The second of Sun’s down meant there would be the Feast of the Dead in Windhelm, where the people would feast and recite the name of the 500 Companions of Ysgramor and their feats after they dealt with the elves who slaughtered the people of Saarthal. Ysgramor founded the city of Windhelm after the death of his son so it was in Windhelm that the holyday was celebrated. As it was tradition, the Companions would often head to Windhelm to honor the ancestor of their guild, so Farkas was not surprised when he reached the gates of Windhelm and found Aela and Skjor coming from the sides of Kinesgrove and heading towards the city themselves.

Farkas had completely forgot about the holyday, to be honest. But he knew well that with the Harbinger’s current health, most of the Companions wouldn’t head to Windhelm to celebrate the day. So for Skjor and Aela to head, they had to be nearby. Vilkas would most certainly stay at the Harbinger’s side honoring the dead in Jorrvaskr and watching over the whelps. How had Skjor and Aela caught up with them though? He imagined the blood had something to do with it. A fully grown werewolf could catch up with a horse, and if the two didn’t stick to the road, they could take a variety of alternate paths that got them there quicker and even provide them hunt.

That reminded Farkas of Lysander’s own words: _I just run. I pick my journal, open up my map, get myself sorted out on location and path and just go!_ That made Farkas smile, he had a feeling Lysander had the perfect spirit to be a werewolf. One who would enjoy the freedom of the run, the thrill of the hunt and the bond to the moons and the earth. He was quite free-spirited and loud mouthed, like a wolf, like a young and naïve whelp, yet wise enough to know where and how to stand in the world around him.

And watching was how Farkas came to notice Lysander, staring at him wearily, eyes seeing Farkas but beyond Farkas in a way that made the Companion flush and flinch under the scrutiny.

“New Blood.”

“Lys,” he corrected. “Lysander, Lys or Ander, not Lisa, not Lisie,” he explained and with a grin made sure to ad, “Farkas.”

“Did you find your friend?” He asked.

“Rumarin, ah yes,” he answered with a smile. “He at first was dispirited because he thought I was replacing him, but he perked right back when I explained you were accompanying us. He said, _oh great! Now you can dump your crap on him, instead of making the elf who learned bound weapons not to have to carry stuff… carry your stuff!_ ”

“Rumarin?”

“Oh, a high elf who’s a lot more mouthed and random than myself,” he explained. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. You’ll like him.”

Another elf? They weren’t as uncommon as one would think in Skyrim. But he’d easier find dark elves than high elves, even if the Thalmor were an overbearing presence in Skyrim. Farkas and the other Companions had crossed path with them before, while they carried prisoners to their Embassy, people Farkas knew well, some were friends. Yet, as Whiterun was part of the Empire – even if it did not admit it – they couldn’t do anything to help their friends, lest the Companions themselves became target of the justiciars. He had a feeling that if Ysgramor himself knew of this, he’d be quite unpleased by it.

“Where is he?”

“On the stables, that’s where he usually hangs out,” Lysander answered. “Want to go into town?”

“I think we have enough supplies to head to Winterhold,” Farkas answered.

“Well, today is the Feast of the Dead,” he explained, “and we are Companions. Maybe you’d like to attend the feast.”

Yes, Farkas would like to, but it felt like bad taste to go, especially having in count his brother and their Harbinger both had remained in Jorrvaskr. Yet again, he wasn’t in Jorrvaskr and he was in the city, it felt like a waste to not go to the feast when Aela and Skjor had gone into the city to attend it also. Finally he accented to the deal and the two went through the gates. The city was festive, some drunks already surrounded Candlehearth Inn. Among them, Rolff Stone-Fist was harassing an elf, Angrenor also in the fight. Lysander, not prone in being inconspicuous, walked up right to the two to eavesdrop, Farkas close behind.

“You come here, where you’re not wanted! You eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!” Rolff quite loudly yelled at the woman, a dark elf named Suvaris, pointing his finger at her as she stepped back, hands lifted in front of her.

“But we haven’t taken a side because it’s not our fight!”

“Hey, maybe the reason these gray-skins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies!” Angrenor suggested and Farkas rolled with his eyes. The elf simply crossed his arms grinning as he heard the conversation.

“Imperial spies?” The woman asked surprised. “You can’t be serious!”

“Maybe we’ll pay you a visit tonight, little spy!” Rolff threatened with a grin. “We got ways of finding what you really are.”

At that Farkas frowned and was ready to intervene but the elf lifted his hand at him asking him to wait. Farkas furrowed his brow questioning and Lysander motioned him to wait with a devious grin on his face. As Suvaris walked away affected, Angrenor and Rolff laughing drunk, Farkas watched as the high elf walked up to Rolff Stone-fist. The Nord instantly spotted the elf.

“Hey you! You a Dark Elf lover?”

“I can’t say I ever tried Dark Elf, but I have nothing against them,” Lysander answered with a grin. He pushed his hair back, showing off his pointy ears. Rolff flinched and sneered.

“Elf! Get out of our city, you filthy piece of trash!”

“Your city? I don’t see your name written on it! How about you change that foul mouthed attitude of yours?” Lysander warned.

“Don’ like it? Too bad. This is our city. Ours!”

“As long as you pay taxes, that is,” Lysander pointed out and Farkas snickered.

“Don't think I can take you? One hundred septims says I can punch you back where you came from."

“I do miss High Rock,” the elf said with a grin. Farkas was about to advise against that when the Nord held out his hand and Lysander took it, grin in lips. “Deal! If I win, you stop harassing the elves!”

“All right. Fists only, and none of that magic stuff either!” He said. “Let’s go!”

Lysander threw his gear at Farkas who quickly caught it surprised. “New Blood, you think that’s a good idea?”

“I reckon I can punch a Nord in the face,” he answered with a grin and pulled his fists up.

The men and elves around gathered to watch the fight. Farkas sighed and watched as the two started throwing punches at each other. Rolff charged at the man with two left hooks, but the elf dodged back, with a jump. He ducked under the fists and tackled the Nord, slamming his head against the Nord’s stomach who grunted as the air was thrown off his lungs. Lysander started punching the man on his sides as the man yelled and thrashed finally slamming his fits down at Lysander until he finally yanked the elf off him. People cheered and yelled watching as Rolff threw a right hook at the elf, who dodged, in time of getting punched across the face from the left.

The elf yelled staggering back, blood rushing down his nose. He stopped, Rolff sneered at him and Lysander grinned. Whipping the blood of his nose he ran at the Nord, tackling him to the ground. The Nord fell down, back and head slamming against the cobblestones. Lysander started punching at the man’s face as he pulled his arms up yelling. Farkas furrowed his brow as Rolff’s nose and mouth started bleeding as the strikes split his lip and probably reattributed the broken nose. Finally the man rolled sideways, sneaking from under Lysander. The whelp waited for the man to get up, but as he did, he quickly took advantage of the moment to lay a left hook on the man, then a right, then a left, again and again. Finally Rolff started yelling.

“I yeld! I yeld!” Covering his face with his arms, blood rushing down his mouth and nose.

Lysander stopped, whipping once more the blood that hadn’t stopped running from his nose.

“You won! Here! I’m a man of my word! 100 septims! All yours!” He informed with a pant.

Both man stood panting and bruised, but Rolff slowly grinned at the High Elf. “I guess that means you can stick for yourself! Elf.”

“Told you,” Lysander grinned and Farkas walked up to him. “What’s your problem with the dark elves, anyway?”

“They're parasites. They're living in our city, under our protection, but what do they do for us? Nothing! I know the High King invited them here, but he didn't ask me or anyone else first. Maybe he should have.”

Lysander brushed his nose again and grimanced. “If the High King asked everyone their opinion, he wouldn’t be a king. And you can’t really think they’re spies! Come on. Khajiits maybe, but elves? Just because we have pointy ears doesn’t mean with fancy the Dominion.”

“Wouldn't surprise me. They've done nothing to help in the fight for Skyrim's freedom. Those Thalmor are elves, too. I bet they're working together. Maybe I should round up some men and take us a few prisoners to interrogate.”

“Go ahead, I dare you!” Lysander stepped forward giving him a small push. “I’m an elf too! Why don’t you try starting with me and I’ll show you my father’s Nord side when I shove my half elven foot up your arse!”

Rolff brushed where Lysander push. “So those parasites just going to keep feeding of our city?”

“Get them a job, then they’ll stop being parasites! I see two types of refugees here, those who actually try to do something with their lives and those who don’t! We have citizens and parasites! Take your pick.” Lysander said. “Yet again, what are you doing with yours to contribute to the fight? You’re not in the Stormacloak army, you don’t have a job! All you do is get drunk and bad mouth elves! Maybe you too are an imperial parasite!”

Rolff flinched and pushed the elf walking past him grumbling under breath about how those “pointy-ears” were ruining Windhelm. Lysander shook his head and looked up at Suvaris.

“Do you hate the dark elves? Are you here to bully us and tell us to leave?” She asked him.

“I have nothing against dark elves,” he answered pinching his nose to try and make it stop bleeding.

“You have come to the wrong city, then. Windhelm’s a have of prejudice and narrow thinking, unworthy of one such as you.”

“He does have a point though,” he said with a chuckle and the dark elf looked at him surprise. “You can’t expect to live forever in a town, complain of the conditions you live in, yet take no role on the town’s problems or politics. It’s like you’re eating a pie, complaining it’s not an apple pie, yet give no apples or even aid in making the pie or keeping it yours.”

“I work,” Suvaris answered. “I work, I make a living. I don’t stand around with a sense of entitlement and complaining about my conditions. Go lay that lecture on Ambarys or some other elf down the Gray Quarter.”

And Lysander smiled. “Sorry then. They have no right to harass you, or threatning you,” Lysander said. “If he bothers you again, tell me and I’ll punch his nose in again.”

“Thank you, but I can look after myself,” she said, but smiled. “Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don't care much for us, but Rolff is the worst by far. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Gray Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning. A real charmer, that one." 

“Want me to hit him with a paralyzing arrow next time he does it? Then he spend the small hours of the morning on the freezing cold frozen stiff.”

And Suvaris chuckled shaking her head before leaving.

 

They were sitting by the steps to the Palace of the Kings where Farkas stared at the high elf. Lysander was leaning his head back, with two pieces of white cloth stuck up his nose. Farkas sighed looking quickly at the brash high elf.

“How are you feeling?”

“Jusst fine!” He answered, his voice muffled. “Just got my nose broken, but nothing out of the ordinary!”

Farkas chuckled and waited for the elf to look forward. The elf finally looked at him and grinned. “Kicked a Nord’s arse!”

“Indeed you did,” the Companion agreed. “He was drunk though.”

“Don’care!” The elf quickly said. “Still kicked his arse!”

“What about your hands?” He took the elf’s hand’s quickly and the elf flinched, pulling them back wearily. The Companion looked up at him surprised and bit his lip looking away, trying to change topic. He just wanted to check if the elf’s hands were alright.

“Where'd you learn to brawl like that?”

“My brother,” Lysander answered, and he lowered his hands. “That was the only way we both ever got along! By breaking each other’s noses!”

At that Farkas laughed. “Seemed like a very strong bond!”

“You have no idea! I think my brother could stand a Thalmor justiciar better than he could stand me,” he said with a laugh but his smile died quickly and Lysander looked down.

“Where's your brother?”

“Legion,” he answered. “Probably down in Cyrodil licking some fat cat general’s arse!” Then he shrugged and got up. “Go feast, I’ll wait for you in Candlehearth Inn.”

“You sure?” And Farkas got up.

“Aye, mate, have fun,” he answered and with a smile walked away leaving Farkas behind before Farkas could turn back.

The Companion did attend the feast, but left quite early. During the whole time he couldn’t help but worry about Lysander and wander why the elf choose not to partake on the feast. He himself was a Companion, even if he was an elf. Nonetheless, Farkas decided to bring a bottle of spiced wine and some food with him and hopefully share it by the hearth with the elf. Some form of compensation for going to a feast and leaving the elf alone. However, once Farkas reached the Inn he was surprised to find out Lysander wasn’t there. He found Rolff at the bar and decided to ask him.

“Did you see the elf who beat you?” Farkas asked, going straight to the point.

“You mean the high elf? Heh! Paid me a drink, drank with me then left!” Rolff said with a laugh. “That elf’s okay in my book, at the contrary of those good for nothing gray skins.”

Farkas rolled his eyes annoyed and pressed on. “Where did he go?”

“Dunno, heard him say something about Gray Quarter,” and Rolff shrugged it out and turned to his mug.

As he got outside, Farkas realized it was snowing, so he headed towards east, towards Calixto’s shop, then he’d go down to the Gray Quarter. As he made the turn at Niranye’s home he stopped. The cold brought with it a sweet familiar scent of pine trees, fire and something sweet. He turned towards the small garden between Niranye’s house and Calixto’s store and he was surprised to find Lysander there. He was on a bench, a small campfire burning low ahead of him. He had removed his hood and Farkas realized a little child was sleeping against him wearing it. The child slept against him and Lysander was flipping the pages of a book, wild snowflakes in his red hair. There was an unfinished pie and some tea by the two.

Farkas made his way to the two and Lysander looked up at him. “Companion! I was expecting you only tomorrow morning.”

“Farkas,” the nord corrected. He wondered why sometimes Lysander would shift to a more formal term of treating him. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is Sofie…” And he smiled gently at the sleeping girl. “She sells me flowers.”

Farkas flushed red at the warmth of his smile. The Companion knew well that girl. Her parents had died a few months ago fighting the Legion, but he thought the girl had been sent to the Orphanage. Instead, there she was, in the cold, with an odd elf showing kindness.

“She sells you flowers?”

“Aye, whenever I come into town I see her every now and then and buy her flowers,” he explained. “Today I brought her a pie and some tea for us to celebrate the Feast of the Dead!”

“You could have gone to the Palace of the Kings,” Farkas pointed out. The elf looked up at him and smiled, a sad smile while he looked down shrugging. With a sigh the Companion walked over, sitting by Lysander and being careful not to disturb the girl.

“I brought you some food and some wine,” Farkas pointed out.

The elf smiled brightly at Farkas who flushed once more. Lysander had an intoxicating smile. “Thanks, Farkas.”

“I think that’s incredibly sweet of you,” Farkas started. “Bringing food to an orphan child you barely know about in a town were nords aren’t exactly friendly to your kind.”

“Humm… There’s some cool Nords here,” he said brushing his cheek. “There’s the blacksmith, Hermir, I like him. There’s Brunwulf, he’s a good man, There’s Bolfrida, and there’s Elda… A lot of good people here who are Nords. Yes some pieces of shit like Rolff, but I have you once Farkas. Everyone in Tamriel is racist someway or another,” he explained. “Only way to accept anyone is to stop seeing races and start seeing people instead. This is not a Nord, it’s just a girl, just like I’m not a mongrel, but just a guy,” and he shrugged. Then he grinned at Farkas, leaning over to the Companion. “And you are not a Nord, you’re a silly wolf.”

Farkas frowned and the elf laughed. But he didn’t move away, he just kept his eyes locked on Farkas’ own eyes. Gently he placed a hand on the Companion’s cheek and Farkas flushed once more. The elf brushed his thumb against the man’s face, smiling kindly, not a grin, no sadness, just a gentle and warm smile, like his green eyes tinted of gold. Warm, like the scent of fire.

“I love your eyes,” Lysander pointed out. “I like all about you. There’s something warm about you.”

And he leaned forward. The whelp’s lips touched Farkas, a gentle warm brushing still tasting like apple pie. The Companion felt a heat rush up his loins as something fluttered in his stomach. Embaressed, Farkas jumped out, pushing the elf away. Eyes wide and shocked, settled on the elf whose smile had died, replaced by surprise and rejection. Farkas wanted to apologize, wanted to ask what that was all about, however, he couldn’t even voice it, all he could feel was the feeling of the elf’s soft lips. The elf leaned back, looking at the fire while he bit his lip.

“That was stupid of me, Companion,” he said, his voice becoming cold and that covering grin crossing his features. His eyes seemed to be shimmering under the light. “I’m sorry for that… I… You had something on your lips…”

No, he didn’t.

The girl next to the whelp seemed to flutter awake and the elf fell quiet. Soffie looked up at him. He bit his lip again and smiled. “I have to go, Soffie, you are free to keep my hood.”

“Aww, already?” She whined.

“Aye, I’m taking some Dragon Tongues with me. Already left the coins for them in your basket.”

“Really?! Thank you!” She said excited and he got up.

Farkas watched as the elf stopped by him, but avoided eye contact.

“I’ll be on the stables when you wish to leave, Companion…”

“Farkas,” he lowly corrected. “Wait… Lysander.”

But the elf ignored it, leaving as quickly as he could. The Companion watched him as he practically ran out of the city. Regretfully, Farkas touched his lips. Had the elf taken that as a rejection?


End file.
